


Bittle's Bitty Bites

by tryslora



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: (But not Jack and Bitty), Alternate Universe - Bakery, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Background Relationships, Bitty Never Went to Samwell, Bitty Owns a Bakery, Checking Practice, Coach Bitty, M/M, Minor Derek "Nursey" Nurse/WIlliam "Dex" Poindexter, Other, Providence Falconers, Samwell Men's Hockey Forever, Second Chances, You Miss the Shots You Don't Take, smh, surprise wedding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-03
Updated: 2017-03-03
Packaged: 2018-09-28 00:33:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 28,924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10059203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tryslora/pseuds/tryslora
Summary: Once upon a time, Eric Bittle had a chance to go to Samwell on a hockey scholarship... and he turned it down. He went to a local school for business, packed his things, and moved up north to Providence, where he opened a small bakery. He started coaching kids' hockey. He loves his kids, loves teaching them how to be fearless and quick on the ice. He posts to his vlog. He has his shop, and people love his sweet treats and coffee. It's a good life and he's happy.Then in walks Jack Zimmermann, and everything turns upside down.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Oh goodness, this fic. I thought to myself "I'll just write 5-10k about this cute little shop that Bitty has and how he meets Jack at a different point in life" and well... now it's almost 29k later and here we are. Whoops? Also, despite research, I have taken liberties and I am certain there are wild inaccuracies about the legalities of spontaneous weddings in Rhode Island, so just go with it, okay? (No, it's not Jack and Bitty getting married, that's a whole other story, I'm sure).
> 
> So many thanks to the folks who voted for this to be my next fic project by donating to charity last fall. And even more thanks to venivincere for both cheerleading while I wrote and betaing to make sure this story became the best that it could be. <3 And of course, thank you to Ngozi for creating this wonderful world full of incredible characters, and being so kind as to share it with us.

“Bitty! Coach Bitty!” Eliandra leans up on the counter, dark braids swinging around her face as she looks toward the back and yells again. “Coach Bitty, we’re here to see you!”

“Well, hey there, honey, no need to yell.” Eric wipes his hands on his apron, makes his way out of the back to smile at the half-dozen twelve and thirteen year old kids clustered around the counter. “You know Beth could’ve helped you just as well as I can,” he teases, as his employee scurries to collect pastries and sweets and get them onto plates.

“She is helping us,” Dominic says. “But she’s not you. And we wanted to see you. It’s the off-season and we like to visit. Do you want to come skate with us? Eli’s mom got us ice time and we’re gonna do our own practice skate. She said she’d drive us over.”

“I _know_ Emil’s coming on shift,” Eli points out. “He was saying that he was glad because he likes working shifts with Beth.”

Beth flushes brightly and smiles as she ducks her head, putting a second horseshoe cookie on Eli’s plate. Eric pretends not to notice the fact that she’s giving away sweets.

Eli crooks her finger and Eric leans in close, tilts his head so she can whisper in his ear. “Emil has a crush on Beth,” she says. “Maybe if they’re working together, he’ll be brave enough to ask her out.”

Eric nods solemnly, straightens up. “Well, then, maybe since I know I’ll have my two best workers here, I might be able to join you folks on the ice. Just for a bit.”

A cheer goes up and six kids race for the tables, plates in hand, while Eli’s mother pays. Eric gets Mary a cup of coffee, then grabs the heavy cream to add just a drop the way she likes it, and sets it on the counter. Mary Wilson has her hands full with that crowd, but Eric knows she’s up for the task. She used to ferry Emil’s friends around when he played hockey, and she doesn’t even blink at the way Eli’s surrounded by five boys, all jockeying for positions at the table, lightly checking each other even though they’re off the ice.

Eric drops back and stands next to Beth, leans in and says quietly, “I won’t leave if you don’t want to work a shift alone with Emil.”

Her flush is bright. “No, no, that’s okay,” she says. “I like him. It’s just hard to tell if he really likes me, or if it’s all Eli being a romantic and trying to set us up. Never seen a little sister try so hard to get her brother a date.”

“Emil’s a shy one,” Eric says. “He’s big and all, and he was good on the ice—probably could’ve played for a college team, if that’s what he’d wanted to do—but he’s always been a bit quiet and shy. Kept his plays close to his chest.” It aches a bit in Eric’s chest watching Emil now that he’s graduated from high school and has no plans to go on. Out of all the folks he’s coached in these last five years, Emil was the one he thought would keep going. And while he understands the reasoning, Eric still wonders if maybe he should’ve pushed a bit harder, helped Emil get to the place where Eric couldn’t.

The timer goes off, and he grabs a pair of oven mitts and whisks two trays from the oven, setting them carefully on the back counter. He hears a shout in the store—a sudden bright chorus of voices from the kids—but he can’t turn around, not while he’s carefully sliding fresh blueberry, cranberry walnut, and chocolate chip scones from the hot pans onto the cooling racks. He dimly registers Beth’s voice as she greets someone, and only looks up when she calls his name.

Beth’s voice is a bit tight as she asks, “If you don’t think they’re too hot, these folks would like to try the cranberry walnut scones.”

Eric blinks, his gaze skipping from one person to the next. Three of them altogether, and he recognizes every single one. And even if he didn’t, the Falconers cap one’s wearing might be a good reminder. He quickly lowers the empty pan, skins gloves over his hands, and drops two scones on each of three plates before setting them on the counter. The shop is near silent, the kids barely whispering at their table, and Eric can’t blame them a bit.

Three professional hockey players, here in his small shop. Alexei Mashkov, Jack Zimmermann, and Chris Chow, standing at the counter, like nothing’s odd at all about this. Eric wants to ask them for autographs, for a picture he can hang on the wall, but he bites his tongue and tries to be professional.

“Welcome to Bittle’s Bitty Bites,” he says cheerily, pushing the plates toward them. “It’s a pleasure to see y’all here in my shop.”

Chris Chow leans on the counter, looking for all the world more like a Sharks fan—what with his t-shirt, cap, and are those sneakers as well?—than a Falconer, as he tries to look past Eric. “Lardo keeps telling us about it,” he says with a friendly grin.

“Well, I’m not sure who Lardo is, but I’m certain they’re not hiding in my back room,” Eric admits. “And I’ll thank them for the reference if I see them.”

“Larissa Duan,” Jack Zimmermann says.

Oh lord, it’s Jack Zimmermann. In his beautiful glory, standing right there in front of Eric like he’s stepped out of the Falconers calendar that hangs in the back room. Not that Eric objectifies the men on the team; oh goodness, he’d never do that. But Zimmermann’s a beautiful man and one of the best hockey players Eric’s ever seen. He might idolize him just a bit.

“Oh, the artist!” Beth says cheerily, and oh, of course, Larissa. Eric’s spent more than one long afternoon chatting with her, and she’s one of the rare regulars who’s managed to make it into his contact list. They chat occasionally, and he’s been resisting following her on Twitter, even though she Tweets at him on occasion.

It makes sense now, how it sounded like she had a personal stake in the Falconers.

“Larissa’s in here all the time.” He gestures to a piece she made that hangs on the wall, over by the table where Larissa likes to sit. “That’s her regular table.”

“Lardo’s art sparkles.” Alexei Mashkov grins widely. “We’ll use her table.” He gathers up the plates, turns away and yells back over his shoulder, “Coffee for me, Chowder. You’re paying.”

Jack has a hand on Chris’s shoulder, his own wallet already on the countertop. “Don’t worry about it, Chowder. I’ve got this.” He slides a card across the glass to Eric. “Three coffees, one with cream, one with half-and-half, and one black. Also, I have guests coming over tonight, and they’ve been listening to Lardo rave about your pies. So give me two of those, whatever’s good today.”

Beth’s elbow gets Eric in the ribs, and air whooshes out of him, jump-starting his breathing. “Oh. Yes. Pies. Larissa likes the cherry,” Eric rambles. “So if she’s going to be there, you ought to get that. What’s your favorite flavor?”

“Zimmboni is Canadian,” Alexei calls out. “Give him something maple.”

Jack licks his lips, looks down and shakes his head.

“I… actually have something for that,” Eric says slowly, thinking that it won’t take long to whip something up. “Just, sit for a bit. Coffee’s on the house for the trouble of waiting, and well, I can see you’re about to get pounced by my kids, so it’s for that trouble too. I’ll have your pies in a jiff.”

“I don’t mind waiting, and I’ll pay for the coffee,” Jack says firmly. “We like to support local business, and Lardo’s been insisting we come here for a while.”

“I’ll wait for the coffee, you go sit.” Chris shoves at Jack, aiming him more toward the kids’ table than where Alexei waits. Eli bounces out of her seat, already moving to intercept him. Eric winces as he hears the excited squeals.

“That’s really not polite,” Eric says mildly, but the kids ignore him, Dominic grabbing one hand and Eli grabbing the other as they tug a bemused Jack Zimmermann over to their table. Alexei’s chuckle is rumbling and loud, and Chris laughs softly.

“He’s used to it. And he likes kids. He used to coach for a bit when he was younger,” Chris says, leaning on the counter.

It’s somehow easier to breathe when Jack’s not standing right there. And if Eric remembers the roster correctly, Chris Chow’s closer to his own age, maybe a year younger. Eric starts packaging up the cherry pie he has ready, and makes mental notes for what he’ll need to do in order to get a good maple-crusted apple pie done in a reasonable amount of time. “I’ve been coaching kids here in Providence for the last five years or so,” Eric admits. “I played in a co-ed league back in high school down in Georgia, and I did a little rec league while I was going through school myself. Coaching keeps me on the ice, and the kids are great.”

Eli is as close to Jack as she can get without touching him, hovering nearby while Jack crouches to her height and leans on his own knee to sign a napkin. When he hands it to her, she throws her arms around his neck and crushes him close in a brutal hug.

“And they’re staunch supporters of the Falconers, of course,” Eric says with a smile. “We’ve all got our Providence pride.”

“I’m a supporter of the Falconers, obviously,” Chris says, “but I’m a fan of the Sharks.” He touches the brim of his cap. “Georgia—that’s our assistant GM, not the state—says I should be wearing my own gear, but I figure if I can still pull out a good game against the team, I’m allowed to be a fan when we’re not actually playing against them. Right?”

Eric has to laugh at that. Between Chris’s earnest expression, and his stats in goal, he can’t really argue the point. He’s still watching his kids, who are slowly moving back to their seats as Jack comes to his feet and offers a hand to Mary Wilson. Looks like he’s charming them all, which is an interesting contrast to the way he seems so standoffish in interviews. It’s enough to make Eric bite his lip, and take a step back from the counter just as Beth sets down the three coffees.

“I’ll just go get that pie made,” Eric says, gesturing at the door to the back. “Beth, why don’t you help Mr. Chow carry the coffee to his table, and let the kids know that I’ll meet them at the rink. It’ll just be a bit, while I get this pie in and out of the oven.”

The door swings shut behind him as he ducks into the back. He breathes in deep, inhales the scent of fresh dough and fruit that waits on the counter, as he takes a moment to center himself. There’s nothing quite like meeting your idols and discovering just how human they are, now, is there? He’ll have to make this pie perfect, and thank Larissa for the mention somewhere along the way.

 

#

 

**@Omgcheckplease 7/13/2022**

_Oh goodness, there’s nothing like baking for a celebrity to put a bit of panic into a person._

 

**@ArtByLardo 7/13/2022**

_@Omgcheckplease I take it my friends stopped by? Better make that pie for tonight your best!_

 

**@Omgcheckplease 7/13/2022**

_@ArtByLardo Already packed up a cherry for you, and working on a special one to go with. You’ll like it._

 

**@ArtByLardo 7/13/2022**

_@Omgcheckplease I know I’ll like it. The question is, will @FalcsJZimms like it? This is his dinner party._

 

**@Omgcheckplease 7/13/2022**

_@ArtByLardo Hush, you, and stop making me even more anxious. Everyone likes my pies._

 

**@ArtByLardo 7/13/2022**

_@Omgcheckplease Might want to send more than two. Hockey appetites. Shitty’ll stop by for two more later._

 

#

 

Shitty? There’s a person named Shitty? Eric sends out one more tweet— _Getting on the ice with my kids. Never a better way to spend a hot summer day._ —then sets the phone down on the bench so he can lace up. He still misses his figure skates sometimes, but anything to get on the ice is good as far as he’s concerned. He quickly stashes his things in the locker room, then walks out to the rink.

He can hear the shouts before he gets there—Eli yelling to Dom for a pass, Mac shouting that Chops needs to get back in the net. Then there’s a low rumble and he almost trips over his blades when he realizes who else is out there on the ice with his kids. Because oh lord, they somehow managed to get the Falconers there with them.

When Beth had said that Jack would be back for his pies later because he had to leave, Eric hadn’t expected this.

“Coach Bitty!” The scrimmage ends abruptly as all six kids race across the ice, slamming into the boards in front of him.

“Chowder said I can call him Chowder and he’s been showing me all his cool moves!” Chops yells out.

“Tater’s skating on my team!” Dom yells over him, and behind him, Eli crosses her arms and smirks.

“Doesn’t matter, I’ve got Zimms,” she says. Her braids swirl around her as she whips around, skates quickly back to Jack’s side. She gestures, and Jack bends down and listens as Eli earnestly whispers something to him, her hand grabbing onto his sleeve.

Tater waves and skates back out with the rest of the kids, but Chris—Chowder—lingers at the boards. “We didn’t figure you’d mind, and the kids said they were coming over for some free skate time,” Chowder says. “We’re not interrupting a practice, are we?”

“It’s the off season, and this is only a third of my team.” Eric nods to Mary and makes his way through the gate and onto the ice. “Can’t think of anything that’d be a better way for us to spend the afternoon. Y’all didn’t have to do this.” He watches as Eli and Dom face off in the middle of the rink. Jack and Tater are gentle as they skate with the kids, passing the puck back to them each time they get it, letting the kids shine. Eric shakes his head. “Oh lord, I’m gonna be hearing about this for weeks. Probably right up and into the season.”

“You’ve got good kids here. Non-checking league, right?” Chowder skates alongside Eric on the ice.

“Actually, it’s a checking league,” Eric admits. “Eli plays up, refuses to play in the co-ed league. Braver than I ever was. She’s fast, rarely ever takes a check. Swears she’s gonna play for Harvard, and maybe the Falconers after that. Said she’d take the Bruins in a pinch.”

Chowder laughs, turns as he hears Chops call his name. “I’m just going to go offer a bit of advice, okay? He said he’s having trouble getting his split, and I know he can do it. You don’t mind, do you?”

Eric’s been offering advice until he’s blue in the face, but he thinks Chops is more likely to listen to a goalie talk about stretching than an ex-figure skater. “You go on then,” he says, as he skates out to join the kids.

It takes some time to round them all up, they’re so excited, but Eric manages to convince them that they ought to skate suicides even though it isn’t a regular practice. They all rush off, but not before they admonish the three professionals to call Eric _Coach Bitty_. And Eric’s left standing on the sidelines, absolutely dwarfed by the three Falconers. He looks up at each of them, offers a polite smile. “Well, then, you folks are sweet for stopping by. I’m sorry my kids interrupted your day.”

“Good kids, good time,” Tater tells him, clapping Eric hard enough on the shoulder to send him forward a foot on the ice before he manages to stop. “Good scones, too. Lardo was right. Should’ve gone sooner, Zimmboni.”

“We made it there today, at least,” Chowder pipes up. “And I need to go back with Jack. I want a box of cookies to bring tonight to send home with Dex and Nursey. It’ll be fun to watch them argue over who’s eating which. D’you think they’ll tell us—” He cuts off as Jack bumps into him, and darts a look at Eric. “I’m going to go join the kids in suicides. See if they’ll skate faster with me there.”

Chowder takes off, and he’s surprisingly fast. Eric’s not sure what just happened there, but whatever it is, it’s left him sandwiched between Tater Mashkov and Jack Zimmermann, and he’s tongue-tied just thinking about it.

“Well, then,” Eric says, and he runs out of words after that.

“Do you come out often during the off-season?” Jack asks quietly, watching the kids go back and forth. “They seem like dedicated kids, and you’re a good coach to work with them when you don’t have to.”

“There are summer leagues, but that doesn’t take up much time,” Eric admits. “They’re also mostly for the older kids. The seniors are in here every morning during the summer, but the kids this age get left out. They come in for ice time when they can—when there’s a mom willing to schedule it and bring them in. Eli’s the ringleader here—she won’t let her team sit around on their backsides when they could be doing something. She’s got them running 5k races all summer, too.”

Tater clears his throat, and Jack looks over at him. A moment later, Jack nods. “We should talk to Georgia, see about getting these kids on the ice with the Falcs,” he says. “I know our guys would love it, and it seems like your kids would, too. Maybe the whole team, if you can pull them together.”

Eric makes a face. “Well, this here’s the core of the group. There are a few others that are part of the main team—Cory and Frodo are our first line D-Men, never seen a shorter boy on defense than Frodo—but they’re on vacation out in Arizona right now with their folks. Won’t be home until August. The rest of them could take hockey or leave it; they’ll be playing until they find something better, I’m sure, which’ll be right about the time when these kids enter the high school leagues and start playing with the older kids. It all works out in the end.”

“These kids then,” Jack says. “Tater, go rounds up the kids and get them doing some drills; we’ll start another game when Coach Bitty and I are back to even up the teams. I’m going to get his number, so I can arrange something with Georgia.”

“You don’t have to do that, Mr. Zimmermann.” Eric trails after Jack as they head off the ice.

“It’s Jack.”

“Then it’s Eric. Or Bitty. Every time I hear Coach, I think of my father.” It’s been a tough time over the last years, and he encourages the kids to call him Coach Bitty, or just Bitty if they want to drop the honorific. He loves his father, but he doesn’t want to be him, especially not on the ice.

“Eric,” Jack says, with a small smile.

Eric leads him into the locker room, twists the lock so he can retrieve his phone. He unlocks it as he hands it over, realizing just after Jack takes it that it’s still open to Twitter. Eric’s cheeks warm as Jack reads the screen.

“You can tell Lardo that I’ll get the extra pies; no need to send Shitty,” Jack says, and he hands the phone back to Eric.

Eric quickly switches screens, opens up a new contact and hands it back. “Just go on and fill in your information there. So… Shitty is a person’s name?”

“Hockey nickname.” Jack types slowly, carefully tapping each letter on the virtual keyboard. “We played together back at Samwell, seems like ages ago now. Lards was our team manager. Chowder was the frog goalie my last year there. It’s good to play with him again on the Falcs.”

All those words together may be more than Eric’s ever heard Jack say in one string during an interview. He takes his phone back with a bemused expression, stares at the screen. There’s Jack’s name, an email address, twitter name, and an actual physical address, along with the phone number. Eric’s mouth opens, close again. “I uh, the store doesn’t deliver. We don’t have enough staff.”

Jack laughs, the sound a little strained. “I’m just… I’m used to putting it all down on forms. Seemed easier, since you’re a friend of Lardo’s and all. I didn’t think—I don’t expect you to deliver. I’ll come by when the kids are done on the ice.” He glances back toward the rink. “That includes Chowder and Tater. I think they’re having a blast out there.”

“That they are.” Eric can hear the shouts even from the locker room, and he knows they’re tight on ice time. He wants his kids to have as much time as they can with all the Falconers, Jack Zimmermann included. “We ought to get back, split ourselves into teams and get a game going.” He has to be honest, though. “You know that whoever’s next on the ice will be waiting in the wings. Might be a bit of mob if they see you three.”

“We’ll be fine, Coach,” Jack says. He pauses, voice lowering a bit. “Bitty,” he amends, and there’s a shiver down Eric’s spine at the sound. “The kids were saying how fast you are. I want you on my line.”

“Oh, I, uh, well then. Sure,” Eric says. And when Jack lightly nudges him as they walk, Eric reminds himself that it’s not a check, and it’s not anything else, and he just needs to keep on walking. They’ll be on the ice soon, and everything else can fall away and get lost in the hockey.

 

#

 

“Did I say a dozen cookies? Make it two dozen.” Chowder points from cookie to cookie, instructing Emil to pick out two of each kind. “I need at least two kinds that are pure chocolate, and do you have anything with coconut? Dex hates coconut, but Nursey loves it. And Nursey’s a fiend for anything lemon. Ooh, lemonade tartlets. Are these sweet or sour?”

“Sweet,” Emil says, and he puts two in the box when Chowder gestures.

Eric packs pies, making sure the cracked maple sugar crust on the apple pie is perfect before he boxes it, then boxing up a lemon chiffon and a strawberry rhubarb as well. By the time he’s done, Chowder’s up to three dozen cookies in the box, and Jack’s lingering at one end of the counter, staring at a chocolate torte.

“Do you want that as well?” Eric asks, opening the cabinet.

Jack jerks back like he forgot Eric was there, shakes his head. “No. Thanks. Four’s probably enough, and the guys’ll share the cookies. We’ve got plenty of sweets.”

“Get a dozen pastries for the morning,” Chowder suggests. “Aren’t Dex and Nursey sleeping on the couch? And you’ve got Shitty in the guest room, and you know he’ll have the munchies at some point.” He wrinkles his nose. “And be naked. Did you tell him that this isn’t a pants optional dinner party?”

“I told him. Lardo told him. That doesn’t mean he’ll listen,” Jack deadpans.

Eric can feel the heated color on his own cheeks. “This Shitty sounds like a character.”

“He’s a lawyer,” Jack says. “And he really enjoys relaxing when he gets the chance.”

“Here’s everything all packed up.” Emil gets all the boxes on the counter, while Beth rings everything up. Chowder tries to get out his wallet again, but Jack hands Beth a card quickly.

“Take everything out to the car,” Jack says. “I’ll be out in a minute.”

Emil helps with the boxes, and Jack leans on the counter, signs the slip when Beth hands it to him. He should be getting ready to go, but instead he stays there, watching as Eric rearranges the trays in the display case, readying for the after-work rush.

“You’re a good coach,” Jack finally says quietly. “Remember to text me so I have your information. I’ll talk to Georgia, get everything set up for the kids to come skate with the Falcs.”

“Oh. Yes. Of course.” Eric strips the gloves from his hand, pulls his phone from his pocket. It only takes a moment to compose a text— _hi, this is Eric Bittle_ —and send it to Jack.

Jack’s phone chimes, and Jack holds it out, snaps a picture of Eric before he bends over the screen, presumably saving the contact.

“I must look like a fright,” Eric says, thinking that his hair’s probably sticking up in all different directions, and his cheeks are flushed from the heat of the kitchen.

Jack smiles slightly. “You look fine,” he says. He slips his phone back into his pocket, raises his hand as he leaves. “Thanks again. I’ll be in touch.”

Eric takes several steps backward until the counter is behind him, and he leans heavily on it, letting it take his weight. “That’s Jack Zimmermann,” he says quietly, as the door closes.

“That’s Jack Zimmermann,” Beth agrees. “He’s even prettier in person, although I think Chowder’s cuter. He’s got such a sweet smile.” She pauses, licks her lips. “Not as cute as Emil, though.”

It’s a change of subject, and Eric latches onto it thankfully. “Did he ask you out?”

Beth shakes her head, a blush staining her cheeks. “Not yet, but he showed me a whole bunch of cute puppy videos.” She holds up her phone, open to a long text conversation that appears to be a series of texts from Emil to Beth. “We talked a little. He really loves history, and art. I told him that maybe he should talk to Larissa about art next time she’s in, but I don’t know if he will.”

“He’s shy,” Eric says, even though they both already know it.

“He’s shy,” Beth echoes, but she smiles and ducks her head as she speaks. The crush is obvious, and he wonders if Emil sees it yet. Eric’s certain they’ll both figure it out soon enough. They’re young, and love is for the young, after all.

 

#

 

**@ArtByLardo 7/14/2022**

_If you’re ever in Providence, stop by @Omgcheckplease Bittle’s Bitty Bites for the best pies, cookies, and pastries!_

 

**@Shtts 7/14/2022**

_@ArtByLardo No lie, this shit is the best. I mean the best. I could die for another slice of that pie._

 

**@FalcsChowder 7/14/2022**

_@Shtts @ArtByLardo Wait. Does that mean there isn’t any left? Who ate the last of it? I wanted more!_

 

**@FalcsMashkov 7/14/2022**

_@FalcsChowder I will buy more pie from Coach Bitty. We skate with kids, eat pie. Right @FalcJZimms?_

 

**@FalcsJZimms 7/14/2022**

_@FalcsChowder I hid the last piece of maple apple so Shitty wouldn’t find it overnight. It’s my post-run breakfast._

 

**@Omgcheckplease 7/14/2022**

_Did you ever wake up and find the most surreal conversation on your timeline somehow? All y’all followed me overnight._

 

**@Shtts 7/14/2022**

_@Omgcheckplease The pie was just that good. SMH approved._

 

#

 

It’s not unusual to wake up and discover that he has a whole run of new followers, but it usually happens after Eric posts a new vlog, or after a writeup in the local news. Or there was the time that he appeared on the Providence morning show, and he had thirty new followers on Twitter before he got home.

But this time it looks like there are a half dozen Falconers following him, and a bunch of Larissa’s friends who all appear to be hockey players from Samwell.

“Goodness,” Eric murmurs, going through the list. He presses _follow_ on each of them out of sheer curiosity, after discovering that Adam Birkholtz had a long, extended conversation with Justin Oluransi about exactly what the latter was missing by not being at Jack Zimmermann’s dinner party last night.

It’s a bit overwhelming.

 

**@FalcsJZimms 7/14/2022**

_Best pie I’ve ever tasted. Thank you, @Omgcheckplease._

_RT @ArtByLardo If you’re ever in Providence, stop by Bittle’s Bitty Bites for the best pies, cookies, and pastries!_

 

Eric sits down on the nearest chair, the phone loose in his grip. “That boy,” he murmurs.

The door rattles, and Eric jumps. It’s past eight, and he hasn’t unlocked yet. He makes it to the door, twisting the lock and pulling it wide open. “Larissa! Oh goodness, I can’t believe you’re up.”

She holds up her phone. “Bits, you just commented on the fact that we’ve been Tweeting all morning. You knew I was up. Now Shitty, him I’m surprised about being awake. I think he was trying to get to that last piece of pie before Jack managed it, but he couldn’t figure out the hiding place. And well, Dex and Nursey aren’t even thinking about being awake. I’m not sure Holster ever actually went to sleep.”

Eric blinks, trying to file the names away and hoping he’ll figure out what this all means later. “How many of y’all were there last night?”

Larissa holds out one hand, counts off on her fingers while mouthing numbers to herself. “Six Falconers, plus Marty’s wife, and Georgia. One Ace who was not allowed to stay past midnight. And six from Samwell, if we don’t count Jack and Chowder since they were already counted under the Falcs. Would’ve been one more, but Ransom’s pretty much living at the hospital right now. I think Holster sulked all night.” She spreads her hands. “And let me say, there was _not_ enough pie. You would’ve been horrified to see just how fast it went. Animals, those boys are animals. Hard to believe they’re all technically adults. Some of them even pretend to be respectable on a daily basis.”

“Did….” Eric’s voice trails off, trying to remember who Chowder bought the cookies for. “Dex and Nursey like the cookies?”

Larissa laughs, shakes her head. “They haven’t even tried them yet. Dex took the box and went straight down to his truck and locked it up. Refused to let anyone else even look inside of it. Nursey said _chill_ , Dex said _no_ , and Chowder said _but they’re really awesome cookies_ , at which point Dex pointed out that Chowder got the cookies for him and Nursey, and well, there was almost a fight. Which is pretty normal.”

Eric blinks. “Oh. Well, then.”

Larissa drops into the seat at her usual table, brings out a sleek laptop and a pair of wireless headphones. “I have some digital editing to do to help out a friend. Any chance I can get you to just keep sending over coffee? I’ll be having cherry pie for lunch.” She tilts her head, taps a finger to her lip. “Scones for breakfast. Whatever you think I should try.” She hands him a twenty. “Just, tell me when I owe you more money. It’s gonna be a long day.”

Eric turns away, pauses and looks back. “Larissa, is there any chance you’d be willing to talk to one of my employees.” He raises his hand, holds it high above his head to indicate height. “Emil. I know you’ll recognize him.”

“He’s the one that’s not Beth,” Larissa says dryly, biting back a smile.

“He’s the one that’s not Beth, yes,” Eric echoes. “He’s going to the community college this year, and he’s interested in art. And you know, there’s RISD, but I don’t think he can afford it. But he might be able to afford Samwell, if he wanted to try to play hockey for them. He was good.”

Larissa leans on the table, gaze intent on Eric. “Rumor has it, you’re actually pretty good. At least, three Falcs seem to think so.”

“Oh, I… I’m passable.” Eric flushes, steps back as he can avoid the intensity of her gaze. “I stopped playing a long time ago. It’s all coaching for me now, except when I play a bit with the kids.” His smile flickers. “They’re more my size.”

Larissa whips the laptop open, plugs in one earbud and lets the other hang loose. “Send Emil over if he’s interested. But tell Beth to bring me coffee first, please. And the scones.”

 

#

 

Eric’s phone buzzes late in the day, and he glances at where it’s lying on the countertop. His hands are covered in flour as he rolls out crust after crust, lining up an entire armada of crusts that he’ll be blind baking for later use with various cold and non-bake fillings.

_Can you call me? Georgia wants me to set up a time. I spoke to Mary already to get some ideas._

Jack Zimmermann is texting him.

And Jack Zimmermann has already spoke to Eli’s mother about the kids. He’s already started the process of setting up a skate between Eric’s kids and the Falconers. Oh lord, this is happening.

Eric calls out to have the phone respond to the text that he’ll call as soon as he has the crusts in the oven. He’s relieved that the text goes out without any strange word substitutions, then quickly finishes off the crusts, neatly crimping the edges and filling each one with pie beans before getting them into the oven. He washes his hands and picks up the phone, pressing Jack’s number and holding his breath while it rings.

“Bittle.” Jack’s voice sounds relaxed. “I hope this isn’t a bad time.”

“Oh, it’s always a bit busy during the days around here, but it’s not bad, no,” Eric says. He holds the phone cradled in both hands, the heat warm against his cheek. “You said you wanted to try to set a time?”

“Definitely. Georgia’s thrilled with the idea; she always wants to do things with the kids in the area and this is perfect.” There’s a rustling of paper in the background, and oh goodness, does Jack Zimmermann still use a paper calendar? “We’ve got slots available on Monday morning next week, as well as one on Wednesday afternoon, and we could even do an all-day mini-camp on Thursday if you want. We have time on Friday, too, but I spoke to Mary Wilson, and she said that Eli’s going out of town then so that’s a bad day. She’s double-checking dates with the other kids for you, to make sure they’re available.”

“Well, I….” Eric’s breath tangles in his throat. This is happening so quickly, and it all seems almost too easy. “I don’t know. It seems like the kids would want to see you soonest—they’re all so excited about the idea of being on the ice with the Falconers—but at the same time, an actual _camp_ would be a wonderful opportunity.”

There’s silence on the other side, and Eric wonders for a moment if he’s broken Jack somehow.

“Actually,” Jack’s voice comes slowly. “I’d had a thought, and I mentioned it to Georgia and she’s good for it if you and the kids are.”

“What’s that?”

“We bring the kids in Monday morning, get them settled on the ice and do a bit of a shinny. Let them each pick their favorite Falconer to be on the ice with them, and that’ll give us even teams. Then they come back Wednesday afternoon to do more drills and get some more ice time. After that, they’ll get to look at tape, like they’re professionals. Mary’s already said she’ll keep them all Wednesday night, and bring them back early Thursday, and they can get that full day of camp with us. Drills all morning, working on the things they saw Wednesday, and then another game that afternoon. Bring the parents in, if they want to come and can make it. Gives them a chance to get time off if they have to take it.” The words are slow and even, but there’s no break, no real pause where Eric could interrupt.

“That sounds….” It sounds settled. Good. Like there’s nothing really for Eric to do other than make sure the shop is covered. “I’m not sure I can manage that much time off.”

“The camp will be an actual camp,” Jack says. “Georgia’s drafting up release forms so that the kids can be there all day and you won’t need to be there, if you can’t, and Mary won’t have to stay as well. Drop them off, let us work together, and come back at the end.” He pauses, adds more quietly, “You’re welcome to stay, of course. We’d be happy to have you on the ice with us.”

“Yes,” Eric says, because if he thinks about this too long, he’s going to end up disappointing his kids. He knows they’ll want this, as much time on the ice as the Falconers will give them. “I need to talk to them myself, and confirm with Mary, but I’ll manage here at the shop. Just let me—” He cuts off when Beth shouts his name, and winces. “Someone’s out front who needs me. I’ll text you as soon as I’ve got it all sorted.”

“I’ll give Georgia your number, have her send you some documents,” Jack says. “She’ll probably need an email, but she’ll start with text. She’s already following you on Twitter. Been following for a while, I think. Said she didn’t realize your vlog was a local thing until we started talking about it. You used to do figure skating?” It’s said like it’s a question, but Eric has the feeling that it’s not.

“Um, yes.” He winces again when Beth shouts his name for the second time. “Look, I’m really sorry, but I have to go. I don’t know what’s wrong, but Beth sounds like it’s important. I’ll text soon, and I’ll look for something from Georgia. Thanks.” Eric cuts the call before Jack can speak again, shoves the phone in his pocket and hurries to the front.

The shop is bustling, filled with the late afternoon folks hanging out for a treat while they work. Larissa’s still at her table, and Emil’s joined her there. Larissa looks like she’s embroiled in a conversation with Emil over her laptop, but Eric catches her glancing over before she ducks her head. There’s no one in line except for two men standing by the counter. The redhead with pale skin and freckles leans on the counter, staring down at the cookies. He taps the glass top, and Beth jumps forward with a box and starts putting cookies in. The other, dark-skinned man watches as Eric emerges.

“Hey,” he says. “Any chance I can talk to you privately while Dex here gets more cookies?”

“I wouldn’t have to get more cookies if you hadn’t eaten the ones I like,” Dex mutters, jabbing his finger at another tray. He pauses, then frowns. “How’d Chowder miss that one?” He points to a tray and holds up four fingers, and Beth obligingly adds four to the box.

“They were good.” The guy raises his eyebrows. “Do you have someplace out back?”

“Not really, no, just the kitchen.” Eric undoes his apron, tosses it on a hook. He slips through the gate in the counter, motions toward a corner far away from Larissa, tucked in the back of the shop. “But not many folks like to come this far back. It’s not great lighting. Although we do have one person who says it’s peaceful and better for his migraines. He’s not here right now.” He pulls out one chair, indicates the other, and they both sit.

“Derek Nurse.” Derek holds his hand across the table, his voice low. He glances over his shoulder once, and Larissa looks away. Eric frowns slightly, and Derek shakes his head. “I just need to know: do you make wedding cakes?”

Eric blinks, starts to glance at Dex, stopping when Derek says, “Chill, it’s just a question.”

“I never have,” Eric says. “Which isn’t to say that I couldn’t. I’ve certainly made cakes before, and I’m not bad with decorating, but I’m much better with pies. And cookies. I think your friend may have filled that box.”

Derek smiles slightly. “Yeah, well, I may have hidden most of what Chowder gave us so Dex’d buy more. I’ll bring the others out as a surprise when we get home. Back to the question: do you think you’d be interested in making a wedding cake?”

Eric’s put it together now: this must be Nursey if that’s Dex, and these are the boys from Samwell that Chowder bought cookies for. “I’d certainly be willing to give it a try. When are you planning on getting married?”

Derek’s dark skin flushes. “Well, see, that’s—it’s a bit up in the air right now. And since Lardo’s over there trying to listen in, I’d rather meet up with you later in order to give you the details. I haven’t actually—”

“Oh. Well.” Eric lowers his voice, leans in. “If you need a proposal pie, I could certainly do that as well,” he offers, and he sits back when Derek laughs.

“No, I’ve got it covered. It’s just that things are complicated when Dex is around.” The look Derek gives Dex is full of love, enough that it makes Eric’s heart melt. “Very complicated. He’s a font of inspiration for my poetry.”

Larissa gets up, grabs a chair and pulls it up to their table. “Stop whispering and conspiring. You can’t take him back to Boston,” she says. “Eric’s my favorite local baker, and you can’t keep him. Also, Eric—I think you might be onto something with Emil. We need to talk. More importantly, I think you need to talk to Jack.”

“Why would I talk to Jack about Emil?” Eric’s not sure he’s following. “It’s Eli that’s going to do camp with the Falconers. Kids’ camp,” he says quickly, in case anyone’s confused. “We’re arranging for a kids’ camp with my team.”

“I’m not stealing him,” Derek says. He motions to Dex, who carries over a box of cookies that looks like it weighs him down. “I’m just making arrangements for Dex’s birthday. Since it’s a week from Saturday, and we’re going to be back, I wanted to find out if Bittle here makes cakes.”

“Which I can,” Eric decides, rolling with whatever elaborate scheme Derek Nurse seems to be planning. He unlocks his phone and passes it across the table. “Go on, put your contact information in, then text yourself so you’ll have mine. We’ll have to talk about what it is you want.”

“I don’t need a cake, and I don’t need a party,” Dex says, and Derek just slings an arm across the back of his chair.

“Chill, dude. It’s my responsibility as your roommate to spoil you unmercifully if I feel like it, and to make sure you’re embarrassed in front of all of your friends.” Derek looks over at him. “This kills two birds with one stone.”

“Does this mean Jack’s hosting another dinner party?” Larissa grins. “Eric, we’re going to need pie. And cookies.”

“I don’t suppose you cater real food?” Derek asks lazily. “Seems unfair to make Jack cook for a crowd all over again.” He hands Eric’s phone back. “We’ll talk. You can put me in touch with someone if you can’t do the catering part yourself. I want this to be a hell of a birthday party.”

Eric is almost certain that he’s getting in over his head, and that Derek’s talking about two different things. But he’s also never going to turn down business, particularly business that seems to be mushrooming into more and more business as it goes along. “I’ll look forward to hearing from you.”

Derek opens the box of cookies, and Dex slaps his hand away before he can get one. “Let’s get out of here,” Dex says. “We still have to drive home.”

“Because an hour’s a long drive,” Derek says dryly. “Lardo, we’ll see you in a little over a week. Make sure Ransom gets here for this one.”

“I’m sure we’ll all be there.” Larissa watches them walk out, then turns back to Eric. “Birthday cake?”

“Yes,” he lies firmly. “He wanted to ask about a cake, which certainly isn’t my specialty, but I can make a good one.”

Larissa’s gaze narrows, thoughtful. “Huh. Well, about Emil. You think he should go to school, and Samwell’s got a great art program. They’ve also got a great hockey team, and they’ve been known to take chances. If Jack gets in touch with them, they might be willing to take a look at Emil for the fall. If you think he’d want to go.”

“I think he’s scared,” Eric says plainly. “But what do you think?”

“I think he loves art, but he’s worried about whether he’s good enough,” Larissa says slowly. “And I think he loves hockey, but he’s scared of whether he can make it on the ice. You should bring him along as an assistant coach with the Falcs next week, get him to get out on the ice with them.”

“Impossible.” Eric shakes his head. “I need someone in the shop with Beth. It may be summer, and she’s here a lot, but I can’t leave her alone.”

“I’ll help out.” Larissa raises her hands. “Nope, don’t argue. It’s free. You don’t have to pay me. And handily enough, Shits is on vacation next week, so I’ll drag him in here, too. You take Emil and you both get on the ice and have fun with your kids and some professional hockey players. It’s the perfect arrangement, Eric. Take a break and enjoy yourself.”

It sounds perfect. Too perfect. “I can’t….” He tries to protest, but she makes a little zip-your-lips motion with her hand, and he sighs. “You’re right, it’d be good. And I can’t pass up the chance for Emil and the kids to get time on the ice with the Falconers.”

“You’re a good coach, Eric Bittle.” Larissa pats his hand. “Now go text Nursey. I know Dex is driving, and Nursey’s probably dying to tell you whatever he didn’t want to say with me and Dex here.” She grins, leans in close and whispers. “I know he’s up to something. But I’m not going to make you tell me what. I’m just gonna say, don’t breathe a whisper of it to Chowder, because he will never let it go.”

 

#

 

The weekend’s even busier than usual. Apparently the entirety of Providence saw the Tweets after Jack’s Wednesday night dinner party, and everyone wants to know what the fuss is about. Beth helps Eric open on Saturday morning, and by noon, when Emil gets in, they’re thoroughly overwhelmed. Larissa gets up from her table and asks if she can throw her bag in the back, grabs an apron, and starts handling orders and coffee like a pro, while Beth takes orders and cashes folks out.

Emil helps Eric in the back until Larissa starts yelling for Eric and he goes out to find a woman leaning on the counter, a phone in her hands. She’s taking pictures, then typing something in. “I hope you’re tagging me in that,” Eric says, and she looks up with a smile.

“Jennifer Copeland,” she says, holding out her hand. Eric takes it; she’s got a strong grip and she doesn’t let go, tugging him toward the gap in the counter. “Come on out and talk to me for a bit, Mr. Bittle. Or should I call you Coach Bitty?”

Fish mouth is unattractive, but Eric can’t help himself, mouth opening and closing ineffectively for several tries before he finds words. “Eric is fine,” he finally manages. “Coach Bitty is on the ice, with my kids. I suppose what you call me depends on why you’re here?”

“My best friend is Caitlin Farmer.” Jennifer pauses like that should mean something to him. “We went to Samwell together, and I’m going to be her maid of honor next summer, when she’s back from—” She cuts off, tilts her head. “She’s marrying Chris Chow next July.”

“Oh. Ohhh. Oh, I see, yes of course.” Eric nods because now it all makes perfect sense. “Oh goodness, I should have realized. Of course you’ve been talking to the Falconers.”

“Well, Chowder talks to Caitlin, and she talks to me, and suddenly you’re all anyone can talk about. Apparently she’s asked him to ship her some treats, but no one thinks they’ll clear customs.” Jennifer sinks down into a free seat at the one empty table, gestures to the chair opposite her. “So I thought it’d be good to come in and get the news about the best kept secret in town straight from the source.”

“We’re not a secret,” Bitty says with a soft smile. “I’ve even done a spot on Wake Up Providence two years ago.”

“Pie guy!” Jennifer sits bolt upright. “I should’ve remembered that. You were pie guy, and that makes so much more sense now. Do you realize that Anna Louise has never stopped raving about your cranberry apple pie?”

Eric feels the warmth rising to his cheeks. “She stops in every Friday for one when cranberries are in season,” he says. “Although she says the lemon chiffon is a close second when it comes to her favorite, and she can have that one year round. I take it you know Ms. Baker?”

“I interned with her after my junior year.” Jennifer waves her hand like it’s not important. “We still talk, and sometimes she helps me get set up with her best guests for interviews. But I’m primarily about the print medium right now, plus we host a web show weekly with the best spots around Providence. And we’d like to do a spot on you.”

“I’d be happy to show you around the bakery—”

“Not the bakery,” Jennifer cuts in. “You. The bakery, the hockey team, your kids working with the Falconers. All of it. Even your vlog.”

“You know my vlog,” Eric’s eyes go wide.

“I do as of this morning. Crash course,” Jennifer says. “It seems like you have some places where your life overlaps, but I want to bring it all together. You aren’t just the pie guy. You’re a great coach to a great bunch of kids. You hire high school kids who need jobs, and you give them the kind of responsibility most people won’t even attempt. You have a vlog where you mix baking talk with diversity. You’re the entire package, Eric Bittle. And that’s what I want to put on the Providence Spotlight.” She hesitates, cocks her head. “It’ll increase business.”

Eric can hear Larissa and Beth talking back and forth at rapid speeds, can see that there’s still a line at the counter. “Oh, I don’t think we’re suffering for business right now.”

“And we’d be happy to open up a donation line for your kids.” Jennifer’s voice gentles. “I know that hockey’s an expensive sport—whether you’re talking equipment or traveling for games. And I did a little digging and you don’t have a team full of affluent kids.”

That’s more than true. Eric’s kids have heart, but they don’t always have money. Some of them do, and those parents do try to take up the slack. But he also knows that Eli’s wearing the same gear that Emil wore once, and Chops’s mother is working two jobs to try to get a new set of specialized goalie gear for him since what he’s using now has already been handed down twice. Dom’s skates have seen better days, although Cory claims he’s got a pair to give to him since his feet just grew. “We could use the publicity. And the donations,” he admits.

He has a feeling he’s just opened himself up, and he hopes he’s ready for this. He hopes it’s right for his kids, too. The way Jennifer leans forward, her expression bright and smiling, he thinks it’s okay. She knows Chowder, after all, and he seems genuine.

“I know your kids are doing camp with the Falcs this week. Do you think I could come to the little exhibition game on Thursday? Grab some B-roll and do some interviews? I’ll give you all release forms,” Jennifer asks.

A mug plunks down on the table, slides toward Jennifer as Larissa drops into the seat between them. “Hey, Jen,” Larissa says. “Chowder said you might be coming by to bother Eric. Don’t overwhelm him.”

“Oh, well, it might be a bit too late for that,” Eric admits. “Goodness. I just don’t know what to say to that, not without talking to my kids, and to the Falconers as well, first.”

“It’s already cleared with Georgia,” Jennifer waves aways his concern.

“Don’t railroad him, Jen.” Larissa leans her elbows on the table, looks at Eric. “Do what’s best for you and the kids. But um, you might want to think about hiring a few more folks for your shop, here. I’m not sure the crowd’s going to let up, and when Beth goes back for her senior year, and Emil starts… wherever he starts, in the fall… you’re gonna be short-staffed.”

“I’ll think about that,” Eric agrees, because he can see that already. He’s not sure how he’ll handle the next week, what with him and Emil being out on the ice. “Are you certain you want to be here on your own with Beth next week?” he asks. “If it’s like this—”

“I’ve got favors I can call in, and we will be absolutely certain that nothing happens to your shop,” Larissa says. “Remember, Shits is here with me all week, and Johnson already said he’ll come by. Rumor has it that Johnson’s bringing Tango along, and while Tango might talk the ear off of anyone here, he’s pretty much likable. Entertaining, too, when you get him going. Just expect questions.”

There’s a piece of this that bothers Eric, because he doesn’t know any of these people. “Maybe they ought to stop in tomorrow, so I can meet them before Monday,” he says quietly.

“Weren’t you just telling me not to overwhelm him, Lardo?” Jennifer asks. “Because I think I may have dug the hole, but you just buried him.”

Larissa places a hand over Eric’s wrist, squeezes gently. “I’ll get in touch and get them in here tomorrow. You close at five on Sunday, right?” When Eric nods, she keeps talking. “Shitty will spring for dinner and bring it over after closing, and we’ll all meet and go over the schedule for the week. Figure out how to get everything stocked to your standards, make sure we know everything you need us to do. Then you won’t have to worry about a thing and you can focus on getting yourself and the kids on the ice. Get Emil skating with the Falcs, and have him talk to Jack. I mean it. Jack was a History major back at Samwell. They’ll get on great.”

“Emil does like history.” Eric pushes back from the table, stands up. “I’m going to go on into the back and figure out a plan so that I’ll be ready for Monday. I’m supposed to have the kids on the ice by eight, and I’ll need to make sure to get everything ready to go here, as well. I’ll leave plenty prepped so all you have to do is pop it in the oven. But right now, I just need to—” He gestures at the counter, and the door beyond.

“I’ll talk to you again on Monday afternoon, after you’ve had a chance to think about it, and talk to the kids and their parents,” Jennifer says. “Georgia’s probably going to have her own PR group talk to you as well. It looks good for the Falcs when they do things like this, and there’s always a release to sign.”

“Of course.” Eric hadn’t even thought about publicity. A few selfies with the team, he thought, but nothing bigger than that. He supposes it should have occurred to him before now, but it just hadn’t crossed his mind. And now that it has, it’s definitely overwhelming. He lifts one hand in farewell and heads to the back of the shop quickly. Getting some pies in the oven will clear his thoughts.

 

#

 

“…Now I know some of y’all have commented to say that you think these flavor combinations with apples sound a bit odd, and I’ll admit, I thought so myself, at first, but I’ve learned you can put anything with apple and as long as you do it right, you’ll have a brilliant pie.” Eric holds up the plate, tilting it carefully so that the filling is in view of the camera. “But look at that striking color. Let me tell you, this one’s a favorite at Bittle’s Bitty Bites; it’s my third most popular apple combination, and when blackberries and raspberries are in season like they are now, I can’t keep the mini pies in the case out front.”

He sets the plate down, holds up his hands. “Now I know y’all want to know more about the most popular apple pies, but I can’t let you have all my secrets, now can I? I promise, I’ll show y’all a fantastic cranberry recipe when the season comes ‘round, but not the pie. Maybe someday, but I’m not ready to share that one just yet. Adventurous folks among you might be wanting to experiment, thought, and I do highly encourage that!”

The pie is sitting right there, and he’s itching for a bite. He doesn’t usually eat on camera, but he figures he can edit it out later if he wants to. This won’t post for days yet; he just wants to get the basics out while he’s thinking about it.

And oh, is he ever thinking about it all.

“If you’re wondering where the rest of this particular pie went, well, I’ll have to blame that disappearance on the Samwell Men’s Hockey team, or well, folks who used to play for Samwell.” He presses his fork through the light, flaky crust, picks up another bite and savors it while thinking through what he dares say on the vlog.

Oh, who is he kidding? He can say it all and edit it out later. This at least lets him get it out of his head.

“So, turns out that Shitty is a hockey nickname. I don’t actually know his given name,” Eric admits. “His business card says B.S. Knight, and I honestly don’t know if those initials are real and how he ended up being called Shitty on the ice, or if he decided to make a pun and have the world call him B.S. when he’s a lawyer. I could see it going either way.

“Shitty brought over take out Vietnamese from a place Larissa likes. He’s… he’s a bit overwhelming. Outgoing. Hugs as soon as you give him permission, but he does ask first if he doesn’t know you. He decided that he’s going to call me Bitty all the time, which is fine with me. Long as he doesn’t just call me Coach, it’s all good, far as I’m concerned. But oh lord, is he outgoing. He and Lardo—that’s Larissa, it’s hard to call her that after two hours with Shitty calling her something else—laid out an entire schedule for this week. They brought up Skype on Lardo’s laptop and we talked to someone named Johnson and his cousin Tango, and they seemed nice.”

Eric hesitates, not at all sure how to characterize Johnson and Tango. He’d answered Tango’s questions easily enough, although he was fairly certain Tango wasn’t done asking when Shitty cut him off. And Johnson, well, Johnson just said he’d be there because the narrative demanded it, then hadn’t said another damned thing in the half hour they’d spent talking. Well, that Tango had spent asking questions.

On the other hand, Eric was fairly certain that if Tango couldn’t figure out how to run the register, use the coffee maker, and bake at least three different kinds of scones after all the questions he’d asked, then he hadn’t been paying attention to the answers. Lord, that boy had questions.

“Shitty had a spreadsheet—from Holster, he said, who’s an actuary working in Boston now. Goodness, it figured out everything for us, from the hours each person spends in the shop, to the number of people who had to be here based on the expected patronage, to how long it’ll take for me to get everything set up each morning. And the planning—oh, they’ve decided to take over, I think. Lardo thinks I ought to use the spreadsheet when I actually hire some more help. Except, I’m not certain I’m ready to be hiring more folks.”

Eric looks at the camera. He knows he’s going to cut this part, because he doesn’t speak this frankly about business anywhere public. “Business is good, but it’s not that good. I need to live on what I make here, and well, yes, I do live right above the bakery, but I rent this whole building. And that’s not cheap, not when I want folks to be able to walk here. We’re in a good neighborhood. The college kids can take a bus to get here; it’s not all that far. We’re not right next to Brown—oh my goodness, the prices on rent were out of sight for those places! But a good part of each month’s expenses go to rent, and supplies, and well, I refuse to pay my kids minimum wage, even if they are high school kids. Emil helps his mom out at home, and I think Beth’s saving for something, even if she won’t say what. They ought to be able to have enough money after the work they do here.”

 _You deserve a living wage, too, dear_.

He can hear his mother’s words in his mind, and he presses his lips together, huffing a sigh. “Anyway. Lardo said that she thinks Shitty and Holster ought to sit down with me, figure out what’s best for the business. She thinks they might be able to help me balance the books better. As if I didn’t major in business for myself.”

Which he did, although he was far more focused on baking. When it comes down to it, Eric would always rather develop recipes and run the store rather than focus on numbers. He just needed to know enough to get off the ground.

“Maybe they’re right, we’ll see,” he admits. “Can’t hurt to talk to them, I suppose. And we could use some more help, especially if things keep being busy. Apparently having Falconers coming in makes a guy popular.”

He bites his lower lip, glances at the fridges which are waiting to be filled with dough. It’s Sunday night, which means he needs to let the bread dough proof slowly overnight, ready to be baked first thing in the morning. And because it’s Monday with the Falconers, everything’s going to need to be done early.

“Seems like it’s time for me to best be going,” Eric says softly. “Go on now, go make that appleberry pie, and let me know how it turns out. I’ll be waiting to hear from all y’all.”

He switches off the camera and looks at his list. It seems like a lot, but the first round of dough’s already done, just waiting to be punched down and parceled out for rising. He has to get the pastries put together, and put four different kinds of muffin batter in the fridge, ready to put into tins in the morning. Won’t take more than an hour or two, and well, that’ll give him a solid five hours to sleep. Maybe four, if he wants to be on the safe side.

That’s assuming he manages to sleep at all. Oh lord, tomorrow he’s going to be skating with the Falconers. He’s probably more nervous than his kids!

 

#

 

Maybe Eric should’ve slept a bit more.

But the shop opens at eight, and he had to be ready to meet Beth, Shitty, and Lardo at the door by half past seven, and before that he had the first bread in the ovens by five. He’s been up since a little after four, and he’d stayed up until almost midnight the night before, making sure everything was ready. It had made sense at the time, but when he’s standing in the shower, leaning back against the wall with his eyes closed, all he really wants to do is crawl back into bed.

Which he can’t do, since he’s driving Emil to the rink and they’re both getting on the ice with the kids. And the Falconers.

Oh lord, he’s going to be skating with professionals again. He’s not entirely sure his heart can handle it. At least he’s not sharing a locker room.

He drinks a cup of coffee in his apartment before he goes back down to the shop, then makes a cup for himself to go, along with a thermos of cocoa to bring for the kids. Beth hands Emil a box of mixed pastries and donuts, and another box filled with mini pies. There’s a bag with sliced cinnamon bread, still warm from the oven, that Beth loops over Emil’s arm while Emil ducks his head and looks away.

Once they get settled in the car, Eric tries to get Emil talking, but Emil’s head is down, his focus on his phone. He glances up long enough to say, “Mom has Eli in the car and she won’t shut up about Tater. Mom’s stopping to pick up the other kids, so she might be a few minutes later than us.”

“Well, that’s fine, I’m sure. We’ll get ourselves ready and laced up, and maybe introduce you to—” Eric glances over, but Emil’s head is ducked and he has earbuds in his ears, and Eric knows he isn’t listening.

He doesn’t think Emil’s trying to be rude. He recognizes coping mechanisms when he sees them.

It isn’t easy to juggle the equipment and the food when they get there, but somehow they manage. Eric loads Emil up with all the baked goods and one hockey bag across his back, then he slings his own bag over his shoulder and carries in the drinks. There’s a woman waiting for them who introduces herself as Georgia, and she leads the way to rinkside.

“Do you need to get changed?” she asks, glancing at the two of them.

Emil shakes his head, and Eric says, “No, ma’am, we came in comfortable clothes to skate. Just need to get laced up and gear on, and we’ll be ready to go. The kids are running a bit late, though. This here is Emil; he’s Eli’s older brother, and he’ll be working with me as an assistant coach to the team this week. He was one of my kids once upon a time.”

Georgia holds out her hand, waits until Emil takes it. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Emil.”

Emil looks to Eric once Georgia walks away. “She treated me like an adult.”

“You are an adult,” Eric says firmly. “Just a young one. Old enough to make your own decisions, and old enough to have some responsibility. Even if I might still call you one of my kids.”

“It’s okay if you do that, Coach Bitty.” Emil pulls on his skates and starts tugging the laces tight.

“You made it, eh?” Jack Zimmermann towers taller than usual, balanced on his blades while Eric’s still in stocking feet, waiting to get laced up.

“Goodness, yes, did you think we wouldn’t?” Eric sits down on the bench and tries not to hurt his neck looking up. “Your friends showed up at my shop and have just about taken over. Not quite sure how I feel about that, yet.”

“They mean well.” Jack sinks down to sit on the bench next to him. “I hear you’re catering a party at my place on Saturday.”

“Apparently, yes,” Eric admits. He’s been chatting on and off with Derek, and he’s waiting to meet with him so he can get approval for the design he made for the cake. “I hear it’s Dex’s birthday.”

“It is, and Nursey’s decided I’m hosting a party for him,” Jack says dryly. “Which I don’t mind. I like it when the guys visit. Holster’s determined to get Ransom here for this one, which will put Holster in a better mood, as long as Ransom doesn’t spend it curled under the table.”

“Curled… under the table?” Eric has no idea why that’s even possible.

“Ransom has a tendency to push himself until he can’t work any more,” Jack explains quietly. “He was pre-med and an ECAC hockey player at Samwell. Now he’s doing his residency at Tufts. He’s also Holster’s best friend. Holster and March spend a lot of time trying to figure out how to keep Ransom sane.” At Eric’s quizzical look, Jack clarifies, “March is Ransom’s girlfriend. They’ve been together since Samwell.”

“Oh.” It’s a bit like getting a crash course in everything he might have known about Samwell men’s hockey if he’d actually gone to Samwell.

Eric licks his lips, reaches out to tap Emil’s broad shoulder. “I don’t know if you met the other day, but this is Emil. He’s Eli’s older brother, and he’s a great player as well.”

Jack reaches past Eric, shakes Emil’s hand. “Are you playing for the high school?”

“Just graduated,” Emil rumbles softly. “I’ll be helping Coach Bitty out in the fall. And here, this week. I work in his shop.”

There’s a light in Jack’s eyes that makes Eric think that Larissa’s already talked to him about Emil, and Jack knows exactly what’s going on here. Eric slips from the bench, leaves the two of them as he hears Jack mentioning Larissa and art. Oh dear, yes, he doesn’t need to hover for this.

And he doesn’t need to think about the things he didn’t do in his own life.

He skates onto the ice, rounds up his six kids and gets them doing laps around the rink. Not all of the Falcs are there, but he already knows Tater and Chowder, and he meets Marty, Thirdy, and Snowy. “Six Falconers for six kids,” Eric says with a smile. “Seems like you’ve got this covered.”

“We all like kids,” Thirdy says easily. “Have some at home myself, and maybe someday you’ll end up coaching them. Besides, Tater and Chowder are just big kids themselves.”

“I am not only one on team!” Tater calls out, and Eric laughs.

“He has a point,” Marty says, knocking into Thirdy, and they skate off, calling for Eric to join them with the kids.

By the time Jack and Emil get on the ice, Marty and Thirdy have split the kids, Falcs, and Eric and Emil between two teams. The teams gather up long enough to define their positions, while Marty and Eric decide who’ll be captaining their team. On the other end of the ice, he sees Emil nod, then start calling out instructions to the kids and the Falconers both, and it makes Eric feel good to see him being decisive.

It’s good to be on the ice, and it’s good to be skating. With seven players on each team, and only six on the ice at a time, someone’s always getting a chance to breathe. Chops refuses to come out of the goal on Eric’s team, and Snowy takes goal on the other side. Once the team gets moving, Eric cycles the players between offense and defense, since he doesn’t have his usual D-men there and someone needs to defend.

Eli skates quickly, braids flying as she takes the puck down the ice. She has a grin that Eric recognizes, and he calls out to Chops to watch out. Eli passes to Dom, ducks between Marty and Tater, and gets her stick out just in time to take Dom’s pass back to her. She’s in perfect position, and Eric knows that she’s probably going to nail the shot. Marty gently taps into her; Eli flails and the shot goes wild. Tater picks it up and Eric’s team skates back down the ice.

Eric lingers a moment just to make sure Eli’s all right, but she waves him off with a laugh, and she skates after Marty, calling out, “You’ll have to do better than that, old man!”

First check of the game, and Eli’s brushing it off like it’s nothing.

The game ramps up after that. The adults are careful with the kids, but the kids aren’t careful with each other. Mac skates straight into Emil, and they both go into the boards. Eli and Dom both bear down on Mac and when he tries to duck away from one, the other takes him out.

Eric purses his lip, keeps his head down, and skates. He takes the puck that Mac shoots in his direction, flicks it to Marty as he shifts direction and side-steps around Emil. He spots movement out of the corner of his eye, sees Marty shoot in his direction. Eric spins in place, switches direction and tips the puck, planning to send it back to Mac.

And Jack is right there, bearing down on him.

Jack is _right there_.

Well, shit.

 

#

 

The ice is cold against Eric’s back. He blinks, and the lights hanging above the ice flicker and sparkle; another blink and they set into proper lights. He gets his elbow underneath himself, and pushes up, nearly bumping into Eli, who’s bent close with her hand in front of his face.

“He’s breathing,” she offers, then comes to her feet, hands on her hips as she rounds on Jack. “Just how hard did you hit Coach Bitty?” she demands.

“He didn’t even touch me,” Eric admits. “I just went down.”

“It might be dehydration.” Marty gets an arm under Eric, helps him upright.

“I’ll make sure he gets something to drink.” Jack motions and Eric follows.

Eric’s cheeks are warm, despite the cold air in the rink. He knows he must be flushed from embarrassment; he feels hot right down to his toes. He skates off the ice, hears the game starting up again behind him. As soon as he’s off, Jack says something, but Eric pays him no mind, walking past him and heading for the benches. He sits down heavily, starts undoing the laces on his skates.

Jack sits down next to him. “Are you giving up?”

Eric pauses in his motion, glances sideways with his hands still on the laces. “I think it would be for the best if I were to coach from the sidelines,” he says stiffly. “My kids are fierce competitors; I’m not a good example.”

“Because you don’t know how to take a check,” Jack says, and Eric shakes his head.

“I’m terrified of being checked,” Eric corrects him, tone careful. “I fainted when I saw you coming at me. I don’t want them scared. They’re good kids, all of them. I want them to do their best.”

“So you quit. What does that show them?” Jacks sits back on his hands. “What does that show Emil?”

Eric flinches, lets go of the laces. They dangle down, his skate loosened but not yet completely undone. “Emil’s a gentle soul. He’s good—you saw that. He’s not necessarily fast, but he gets where he’s going and he doesn’t let anyone get in his way. But people expect him to be violent, and he’s not. He’s shy and cautious.”

“He doesn’t have to be violent to play good hockey,” Jack tells him. “We were talking earlier—he didn’t know I was a History major. Shits majored in women’s studies, and we’ve got a doctor. We’ve had all kinds on the ice at Samwell. We almost had an ex-figure skater in my junior year; the coaches said he decided not to come.”

Eric bites his tongue, reaches down and grabs his laces, yanking them tight again before tying them off. “I don’t want Emil to miss out,” he says quietly. “He’s an intelligent boy, and he could’ve had a scholarship if he’d been willing to put himself out there. He loves his history and art, and he loves hockey. He just doesn’t think he could compete.”

“I think there are people who might argue the point. Are you going to be his example to keep going?” Jack asks.

Eric pushes to his feet, starts walking toward the ice. “Don’t check me, and I won’t hit the ice,” he tells him. “That’s the best I can promise you.”

 

#

 

Tuesday evening, Eric leaves the shop in the hands of Beth and Emil and heads upstairs. He fires up his laptop, opens Skype and waits. It’s ten past the hour by the time his computer chimes, and he accepts the call and sees Nursey there, leaning in close to the camera.

“Do we need to whisper?” Eric asks softly, and Nursey shakes his head.

“No, I was just having trouble getting everything going, and Dex is the computer genius in this apartment, not me,” Nursey admits. “I think everything’s working now. And I just talked to Dex at seven when he left work, and he said he was heading to the gym, so we’ve got plenty of time. So, where should we get started?”

Eric reaches for a sketchbook that lies on his desk and opens it carefully. “Well, first I should tell you that I’m no artist, but I’ve done my best here. I’m better with decorations than I am drawing it out, you can trust me on that.” He holds up the sketchbook to show the camera his design.

It’s a simple cake, only two layers, one nestled against the other. It’s in Samwell colors, the fondant a deep, dark red, striped with a bright white. Eric plans to put their jersey numbers on the side of the upper layer, and keep the decorations simple with hockey sticks and pucks chasing each other around the outside of the lower layer.

It’s the cake toppers where it all comes together. He gestures at the drawing, trying to explain his stick figures. “You said he works on computers, and you write, so I thought this might work. I’ve got two desks here, and this is the one where you’d be writing, and this is where he’s working. Except you’re standing behind him, your hand on his shoulder, and he’s looking up at you. Because even though you said you both work hard, you connect.”

Nursey exhales slowly. “Cool. That’s perfect.” He leans in close, touches something on the screen, and Eric looks down at the sketchpad, trying to see what he sees. “Is that paper in mini-me’s hand?”

“What? Oh yes. You said you write poetry for him, that he’s your inspiration. I thought you should hold some,” Eric explains.

“Love it.” Nursey sits back. “Whatever you want to charge, I’m good for it. My moms aren’t going to be there, but they said as long as Lardo gets it on video, that’s okay. I couldn’t figure out a way to have them there—or Dex’s family—and still have it be a surprise. Maybe we’ll do it again for them someday.”

“I’m sure it’s going to be perfect.” Eric can’t be sure at all; the idea of a spontaneous wedding makes him nervous, and he hopes Nursey knows Dex as well as he thinks he does. “Do any of your friends have any idea—”

Nursey shakes his head. “They don’t even know we’re dating. So this is going to be a surprise all around.”

Oh. That. It just. Eric tries to say something, backs up, tries again. “Is your—is Dex okay with being outed like this?” he asks slowly.

Nursey blinks. “We’ve talked about telling them. We just haven’t gotten around to it yet. Dex isn’t big on declarations. They already know we live together, and since we’ve got two bedrooms and one’s a guest room, they might’ve figured it out. Dex’s family knows. That was the tough one. His brother’s still not speaking to him.”

“I’m sorry,” Eric murmurs, and it’s absolutely heartfelt. “My father didn’t speak to me for a year after I told my parents. He’s—it gets better. I hope Dex’s brother comes ‘round.”

“It’s chill if he doesn’t, as long as he doesn’t make Dex feel bad about himself,” Nursey says quietly. “So Dex will be fine with this. We’ve been talking about it, just haven’t figured out when. And we’ve been talking about getting married, but we hadn’t figured out that, either.”

“What are you going to do about the paperwork?” Eric can’t help but think that Nursey must have missed some of the practicalities.

“We have a lawyer for a friend, and Holster’s a notary, and I may have made friends with the town clerk in Providence a few months ago, and asked her to bring the paperwork by. She wants to meet Chowder,” Nursey says with a laid back grin. “Any other questions? Or are we chill?”

“We’re… I suppose we’re chill,” Eric admits. “It seems like you’ve thought of everything.”

“I’ve just figured out who can do the work so I don’t have to,” Nursey says, spreading his hands. “Which brings us back to you. What are you serving us to eat?”

“Well, you did say to plan for a birthday dinner,” Eric says. His phone chimes, and he glances down, frowning when he sees texts scrolling across the screen.

_Can you get to the rink an hour earlier than the kids tomorrow? I want to work with you on your checking._

Eric purses his lips, picks up his phone. He gets as far as unlocking it, then realizes that Nursey’s watching him. “Jack,” Eric says. He taps out a text quickly. _We don’t need to work on checking. Focus on the kids_.

Nursey waves a hand at the phone. “If you need to get that, go ahead. Wouldn’t it be easier to call him?”

Easier on his thumbs, yes. On his heart? Maybe not. Eric feels warmth on his skin. “I’m fine,” he says, as another text chimes.

_You need to be a good example. Meet me an hour early. I’ll be gentle._

Oh, what those words do to a boy. Eric sighs, because it is not fair that Jack Zimmermann is not only a beautiful man and an amazing hockey player, he’s also _nice_.

 _Yes,_ he types back. _I’ll be there_.

He sets the phone aside, turns his attention back to Nursey. “It seemed like it ought to be something casual, and you said Dex likes simple food, so I thought I’d go with a summer theme. I’ve got locally made smoked sausage and homemade buns—they’re a special wrap that we make, specifically for sausages and hot dogs. Sliders, with several different kinds of topping options, both cheese and no cheese, as well as jalapeños, fried onions, mushrooms, bacon, and blue cheese. Wings, of course, and homemade pizza. You need to send me a list of topping combinations that you prefer, and ones that no one likes. I have four different side salads planned—two with vegetables, one potato, and one pasta. You requested something with salmon, so I’m planning a poached dish, with a dill sauce. One plate of roasted summer vegetables. And of course, I’ve got the list of cookies you sent, so we’ll bring those, and some miniature cakes and pies. I’ll make certain we pack the wedding cake so no one can possibly peek at it before you’re ready.” Eric trails off to find Nursey staring at him. “You don’t like it?”

His phone chimes twice in quick succession; Eric lays his hand on top of it, but doesn’t pick it up.

“You make a summer cookout sound like an all day fancy affair,” Nursey says, nodding. “Impressive.” He glances down. “You going to get that?”

Eric moves his hand slightly so he can read the texts.

_See you then._

_You should come to dinner on Saturday. You already have the address, eh?_

Eric’s mouth falls open, just a bit.

“Still Jack?”

“Goodness, yes, he thinks I should come to dinner Saturday,” Eric picks up the phone, cradles it in his hands as he looks at the message. “Doesn’t he know that I’m catering?”

“He knows you’re making the cake, so that has to be delivered no matter what. It’s too big to pick up,” Nursey says reasonably. “Let him know you’ll be there. That way no one can complain when you stick around and I refuse to give Dex his birthday cake until after we have dinner.”

Eric’s chest feels tight. He types slowly, checking to make absolutely certain that everything’s spelled correctly.

_I’m catering the food for Nursey, remember? We have an entire plan._

The text comes back immediately.

_So you’ll be here._

Eric licks his lips.

_I’ll be serving a multi-course backyard cookout in your dining room. I’ll be there._

_Living room_ , Jack corrects. _My dining room table isn’t big enough. We do this thing with folding tables and plywood so we have enough room to sit. Bring Emil and Beth_.

That’s not a bad idea. _I’ll need their help, so yes,_ Eric types back.

And just like that, it’s set. Eric’s not only catering dinner at Jack Zimmermann’s home, he’s attending as well. He sets the phone down, dazed.

“All set?” Nursey asks. “Just email me the final menu and check in with Jack on what time you should get there. And Bitty.” Nursey waits until Eric looks at him. “Thanks,” Nursey says quietly. “Dex isn’t the easiest guy around, but he’s mine, and this is going to be the most important day of our lives. Thanks for helping make it better.”

“Anytime,” Eric manages to say. He needs to set a proper budget for this, send Nursey a quote for the final price. As they sign off from the call, he calls up a spreadsheet and grits his teeth so he can crunch numbers. He loves baking. This part he could honestly do without.

 

#

 

Eric arrives at the rink a little more than an hour early. He sits on the bench and laces his skates, then manages a lap around the rink before he spots Jack Zimmermann standing there by the entrance. He wavers a moment, then decides to show off with a bit of fancy footwork as he skates over. It’s not as easy to shift to the edges of the blade with hockey skates as it is with figure skates, but he’s still able to make himself look light on his feet, shifting directions in unexpected ways before he comes to a stop.

Jack doesn’t say a thing, and for a moment Eric wonders what he’s done wrong.

“You did say to come early?” Eric asks.

“Is that how you’ve gotten through so far?” Jack gestures at the ice. “You’re fast, and you’re flexible. You can probably skate rings around people taller than you.”

“Most of the time,” Eric admits. “But I don’t play in checking games, either. For a reason.” He’d thought about it. He’d really, truly thought long and hard about the idea, but in the end, he’d just known he’d never get past this fear.

Jack’s gaze is fixed on his, brow faintly furrowed. “Too bad,” Jack says. “I think you would’ve been an asset to any team. You’re fast. You’ve got good hands. And they’d underestimate you.”

“Well, it’s too late now for what if,” Eric says lightly, not wanting to go down this particular avenue of conversation, particularly not with Emil’s situation on his mind. “Like I said, I don’t really need to learn to take a hit. I’m teaching the kids, not letting them slam me into the boards.”

“And then you get on the ice with us and they see you hit the ice before we can hit you,” Jack says quietly. “Come on, let’s see if we can get you used to some contact. Just enough that it’ll make you a better leader.”

The idea that it’s light contact doesn’t help. Even knowing that it won’t be much isn’t enough to keep Eric from freezing in his tracks, twisting in place and abruptly darting out of the way. There’s nothing blocking him from simply not letting Jack touch him.

It’s almost like a game, except Eric’s heart is pounding like he’s the rabbit and Jack’s the fox. And at some point, the rabbit always loses.

“Eric,” Jack says quietly.

Eric freezes at the tone of his voice. He’s standing right by the boards, his hands lifted as if he has a stick held between them, even though his stick is back by the benches. His breath shudders in his chest as Jack skates quietly toward him.

“Don’t move.”

Eric’s eyes are wide, his breath too fast. The world is spinning, and his skate starts to slide.

Then he feels the pressure of Jack’s shoulder against his.

He squeaks, bites his tongue. “Oh lord,” he moans, as Jack lets his weight fall against him. Eric’s skates slip, and he’s up against the boards faster than he can think, trapped there.

Trapped.

“I’m barely touching you,” Jack murmurs, and oh lord, that tone of voice does things to Eric which are entirely inappropriate.

“I didn’t faint,” Eric snaps, voice too high-pitched to be calm. His breath shudders out, and he tries to relax. Tries not to let himself go limp and fall to the ice.

The pressure releases abruptly, and Jack skates backwards, putting space between them.

Eric crouches over, hands on his knees. He slides away from the boards, inhales and holds it for a long moment before he finally lets the breath escape slowly. “Goodness,” Eric whispers.

“Not bad for a first try,” Jack says, and Eric’s gaze snaps up.

“We are not doing that again,” Eric protests, but Jack’s already skating closer.

“Yes,” Jack says slowly. “We are.”

Eric’s caught by the intensity of his gaze, the way Jack looks so serious, as if there’s nothing more important than teaching Eric how to stay upright during a check. The impact is a little harder this time, surprising Eric when Jack bumps into him. Eric curls away, into the boards, and Jack leans into him, holding him there.

“Good,” Jack murmurs.

Eric shudders, and he knows it’s not entirely because of the oh-so-mild hit. The rest of the hour is going to be excruciating, but Eric will struggle to remain standing, just to hear Jack say that again.

It doesn’t mean anything, he knows, but it’s still so very nice to hear.

 

#

 

Eric takes some time off the ice when everyone starts arriving. He needs a few minutes just to collect himself after almost an hour of careful, gentle checks. Oh lord, being pressed up against the boards by Jack Zimmermann has left him in a headspace that’s not at all appropriate for hockey practice.

He splashes cold water on his face in the bathroom, leans on the edge of the sink and just breathes through the mixed reactions of fear and arousal until it all abates. He’s ready to see his kids, and even more than that, he’s ready to get Emil back on the ice with the Falconers.

Everyone’s excited because they’ll review Monday’s tape at the end of the session. But first, there are warmups, as the kids race the Falconers through a series of suicides on the ice. Chowder takes Chops aside to stretch and warm up, and Eric’s pleased to see Chops paying attention, getting closer to being able to drop into a full split.

Eli’s the fastest of his kids on the ice, racing after Jack as quickly as she can. When Jack hits the end of the rink, Eli cheats and turns early, skidding to a stop and shifting on the edge of her blade to execute a tight turn and sprint ahead of him, laughing when he catches up.

Dom tries to pull the same move and his skate slides and he lands on the ice rather than turning. Eli turns around and skates back, giving him a hand up.

“Did you teach her that?” Jack asks, and Eric just about jumps out of his skin to hear his voice so close to his ear.

Eric shakes his head. “Mary put Eli in figure skating first,” he says. “She was just barely toddling and she loved being on the ice, so Mary thought she’d like figure skating. But soon as Eli saw Emil in hockey gear, she wanted nothing to do with skirts and toe picks. She’s been chasing him down ever since. I honestly don’t know which one has more potential; they’re both good.”

Marty rounds the kids up and separates them into teams. He tells them that he and Eric will ref, and he calls Jack into place on one of the teams, and puts Emil on the other. When Marty catches Eric’s eye, Eric just nods back, relieved not to be in the position of taking a hit in front of the kids.

The game is faster than Monday, everyone a little more sure of themselves. Eli doesn’t hold back on her hits, flying into Jack with enough force to catch him off-guard. The Falconers are more careful, aware of how much larger they are than the kids, but the kids take advantage of their small size.

When Chops blocks a shot from Jack, Chowder flies into him, picking him up and spinning him around as the rest of their team shouts.

It’s a good time on the ice, even if Eric’s aware of the video being taken, the camera just out of sight.

After the game, everyone gets their gear off and they gather together in the locker room. Marty’s at the computer as he sifts through the videos to find the points he wants to bring up, while Mary pours out hot cocoa for the kids and coffee for the Falconers. Emil produces two boxes from the shop, and everyone dives in for a pastry.

Eric contents himself with a cup of half cocoa/half coffee, and a blueberry currant scone, and settles himself in at the side of the room.

They travel through the tape in pieces, focusing in on footwork first. Marty adjusts the zoom before putting the video up on the big screen, and the kids shout out, trying to identify feet.

“Jack!”

Yes, with his long strides and compact motion, tight turns, and quick shifts.

“Tater!”

Yes, with even longer strides that eat up the ice, stick held out in front like he’s ready to attack.

Hesitation, then Dom yells, “Tater!” at the same time as Eli calls out, “Emil!”

Marty pans back and it’s Emil, his stride similar to the large Falconer, but his stick handling softer, quieter, an easy tap as he sends the puck off to his little sister.

Eli smirks, pleased as punch to identify her brother’s feet.

Tater smacks Emil on the shoulder. “You were mistaken for me. Good feet, good handling!”

Emil ducks his head, smiling.

As they bring up the kids, they go over the details of the footwork, looking at how Eli shifts on the edge, and her tight turns, and the way Dom twists into his rotations which sometimes works and sometimes doesn’t.

They go off on a tangent about growth spurts and how hard it is to adjust for a changing center of gravity when you’re on skates, and everyone laughs when Chops complains that he’s just not growing at all.

“Doesn’t matter, as long as you’re blocking the puck,” Chowder says, and Chops is mollified by that at least.

They go through stick work, and passing, and talk about teamwork that works, and times when the kids could’ve made a play and didn’t.

When Eli’s first cautious check from Monday comes up, Eric shrinks.

Marty takes them out of order, goes through Monday and Wednesday, shows how the kids came out of their shell. Talks about technique.

Then comes the moment when Jack is skating toward Eric and Eric just drops.

Silence.

Eli glances over at Eric, her brows furrowed together and lips pursed, sad. Eric smiles slightly.

“I never played in a checking league,” Eric says slowly. “You know I can teach you how to do it, right?”

His kids nod; he’s never let them down and has always made sure that they’re prepared for the game.

“Hockey’s not an easy game to play,” Jack says quietly. “It’s terrifying that first time you see a guy barreling at you on the ice. You’ve both got blades on your feet, and you’re off-balance as it is. You’ve got weapons in your hands, and somewhere on the ice there’s a puck that could knock your teeth out, or give you a concussion. Then there’s this person who just slams into you, takes your breath away. Sometimes you go down, sometimes you hit the boards, and sometimes you just hit back. It’s not instinctive to be able to go through someone, and it’s not instinctive to be able to take the hit and keep standing. You’ve got to take chances all the time in hockey. Hope that if you just skate into someone you’ll make it past them. Hope that you won’t fall down or lose the puck when someone checks you. Hope that the puck will slide onto your teammate’s stick or into the net when you shoot. But my uncle used to tell me that you miss 100% of the shots you don’t take.”

Jack isn’t looking at Eric as he speaks; his gaze is fixed on Emil. But it’s Eric’s face that feels hot, his neck burning and red. Eric nudges Emil, and Emil looks at him, breath shuddering as he exhales.

“Can’t win if you don’t play,” Emil says slowly, smile flickering when Jack nods.

“Exactly,” Jack says. His gaze shifts to Eric, gentling. “And every single one of you is working hard on that. You’ve all got potential.”

Eric shifts in his seat, uncomfortable from the weight of Jack’s focus on him. He turns to look at Emil instead, murmurs, “He’s right. You have a lot of potential.” It feels as if the entire room shifts focus to Emil with him, and Eric can breathe again.

It’s tempting to get up and step out. Just for a moment. Just until the conversation about fainting and lost potential is done.

Eric licks his lips, and Marty calls everyone back to the screen. It’s time to talk about shots on goal and look more closely at how both Snowy and Chops handle blocking those shots.

“I’m thinking about it,” Emil whispers, and that makes Eric smile. He can’t go back in time to change history, but he can help his kids make their own stories. And that’s worth something right there.

 

#

 

“You could go.”

Eric looks up from where he’s polishing the counter, wiping away stray fingerprints until the glass gleams. It’s Thursday, and the kids are at the all-day camp while Eric is at the shop. Shitty’s leaning against the counter, a steaming cup of coffee in his hand and another on the counter. There aren’t many people in the shop at the moment—it’s that mid-morning slump—but Lardo is at her table, her head down and headphones on as she works on something on her laptop.

Eric shakes his head, drops the cloth into his little bucket of bleach water and sets it carefully out of the way. “No, no, it’s fine. I know Emil’s doing well with the kids, and he’d like to be my assistant coach in the fall.” Eric pauses, bites his lip. “If he’s still in Providence, that is. He doesn’t think he’s leaving.”

“And you do?” Shitty takes a sip of his coffee, sets it down. “Hold that thought, I need to go deliver something.” He reaches into the case and pulls out a muffin, drops it on a plate. He takes that and the other coffee out to Lardo’s table, touching her shoulder just long enough for her to see that food has arrived.

He collects empty mugs and plates on his way back, checks in on one table that’s been sitting for an hour and hands their mugs to Eric for a refill while he goes back to cleaning. Working with Shitty is easy, like he’s always been here. He just fits in.

“It’s not that I think he’s leaving,” Eric says slowly. “But that I hope he finds a way to take chances. He’s a good player. I think he’d be an asset to a team if he wanted to try for a college scholarship. And maybe he’ll take a year at community college and apply next fall, so I’ll have him helping for a year. But I think he’d be happy if he could do what he loves—both the studying and the hockey. I know he’d make his mama proud, too, not to mention being a good example for Eli.”

“The one who says she’s playing for the Falconers someday,” Shitty clarifies.

“Or the Bruins, and that after going to Harvard. That’s the one,” Eric says with a small smile. It’s somehow easy to imagine Eli all grown up and wearing Falconers gear. “It’s a good group of kids. I think any of them could go on to play in college if they want. If Chops listens to Chowder, he’s going to go from being a good goalie to great; he doesn’t let much stop him.”

Shitty glances over at Eric. “Chops doesn’t listen to you?”

Eric shrugs one shoulder. “Don’t think he realizes I know what I’m talking about for stretching. I’ve been working with him on flexibility for about a year now, but the moment another goalie says something, he’s all ears.” It stopped bothering him long ago, he’s just glad Chops found a mentor in Chowder. “He’s small, but he’s got reach. And he’ll come into his growth someday.”

Or he won’t, but Eric won’t let Chops be afraid of being small in a sport meant for big guys. He won’t let any of them be afraid to go all out.

“I heard that Lardo and Jack have been talking up Samwell to Emil,” Shitty says. “It’s a good place. We had a good time there, and we played hard. We’ve had a few folks go on to play pro. Jack and Chowder, obviously. Johnson played for a year or two, then said something about how it didn’t fit the plot. I think he teaches high school English now; probably confuses the hell out of those poor kids. Whiskey’s playing for the Panthers. I know someone from Philly talked to Dex his senior year, but he shut them down, said he wouldn’t go anywhere without Nursey playing with him, and Nursey didn’t want to go pro.”

“I thought anyone playing Division 1 might want to sign with a professional team,” Eric says slowly. “Isn’t that the point?”

“I’m a lawyer, brah,” Shitty tells him. “And Ransom’s going to be a doctor. Holster will do your taxes, or organize your business. Nursey’s a goddamn poet, and he teaches English because he pretends he needs a job. Dex is a programmer. Tango’s buried in a lab most days, putting all those questions to good use. Not sure if he ever manages to answer any of them, but he’s asking them and making good progress with his research. Most of us just wanted to get a college education and play hockey along the way. Out of us all, Jack’s the only one who knew he’d be playing after graduation.” Shitty leans in, voice low. “Didn’t dream about it, didn’t wish for it. He knew. It was just a question of where.”

“How did he know?” Eric’s voice is hushed, meeting Shitty’s tone.

The door jangles, and Eric turns away, smiles at the new customers and gets them their coffee and sweets while Shitty goes out to check on Lardo and retrieve the plate now covered in crumbs.

“His dad’s Bad Bob Zimmermann,” Shitty says, and when Eric stares at him blankly, Shitty throws his arms wide. “Bad. Bob. Zimmermann. Hockey god. How can you have no idea—”

Eric points a finger at his own chest. “Eric Bittle. Former figure skater. I’m sorry, but I never really followed hockey when I was younger. I played, but I didn’t start being a fan of any team until I moved here. And well,” he gestures with his hand, having great difficulty in explaining how he tipped so suddenly into being a Falconers fan.

Shitty’s gaze narrows. “Oh. Well. Bad Bob’s a legend, and Jack was expected to follow in his footsteps. Juniors to pro to championships. Only Jack took a side road on the way and went to Samwell. But he knew he was going pro after that—there was never really another option for him, not when he had Bob’s shoes to fill. He was… intensely focused. Made him a great captain, and he was a good friend.”

Eric can hear the things that Shitty doesn’t say, the layers of expectations upon expectations. “It sounds like Jack did what he was supposed to do, in the end,” he says quietly. “His father must be proud.”

Shitty’s body language shifts from intense focus to something lazier. More careful. “You sound like this is a familiar story.”

Eric laughs, the sound stilted. “Oh, well, yes. That. Coach coaches football. I never really—I’m not exactly built to be a football player.” That’s putting it mildly. Eric never fit in with the football crowd in Georgia, not with his build, nor his preferences. He smiles weakly. “Hockey was good enough for a while there, and he’s proud that I’ve got my own business. I suppose I know the other side of that equation. I’m glad for Jack. Glad that he did what he wanted to do.”

Shitty picks up his coffee, blows on it even though it must be cold by now. “Are you happy?” he asks.

“Well, of course I am.” It might have been a tight spot for a while there, but in the end, Coach came ‘round and Eric’s doing exactly what he wanted to do. “I go home and see my folks several times a year, and I talk to my mama every other week—we’ve got our calls on the calendar. My family’s proud of what I’m doing, and every Fourth of July I’m asked to cater the family party down in Georgia. And I’ve got my baking, my vlog, and my kids on the ice. Of course I’m happy.”

There might be one small thing missing from his life, but Eric doesn’t look too hard at that. He’s fine on his own.

“Jack went directly from his second straight second place finish in the NCAA hockey finals to being on the ice with Falconers,” Shitty says quietly. “Every eye was on him, everyone was asking whether he’d live up to his father’s potential or whether he’d crumble under the pressure. And he wasn’t happy for a while. It’s not a time any of us like to think back on, but he had to learn that being his father wasn’t necessarily the best thing for him. He had to be Jack, and he had to be happy. And hockey wasn’t the only thing that makes him happy.”

“This is too personal,” Eric murmurs, because suddenly he feels like he’s on the edge of seeing a side of Jack Zimmermann that Jack might not want him to see.

Shitty takes a long gulp of his coffee, then goes to refresh his cup. “You’re probably right. I’m just trying to make a point that being only goal-oriented isn’t necessarily the best thing, and avoiding your goals isn’t good either. Finding a balance—that’s a good thing. Help your kids find that.”

It occurs to Eric that the saying goes both ways. You always miss the shots you don’t take. If he hadn’t taken a shot on this—his business, his baking—he wouldn’t be here. He didn’t take the chance on hockey, but he did get this out of it, and he still has his time on the ice with the kids. And it sounds like Jack took his shot on hockey, and that’s all he did, at least for a while.

The door jangles, and Eric turns slightly, watches as Tango and Johnson come in, pausing to talk to Lardo on their way. “Maybe it’s not just about taking the shot,” he muses, “but taking the right shot. Puck’s always moving, right? There are lots of options. But you have to hit it at the right time. Sometimes you have to pass it, sometimes you have to shoot; you have to keep it moving. And you have to take the shot or you can’t win. But choose wisely.”

“Just don’t take too long and lose yourself in the game,” Shitty says. He grabs two fresh mugs, starts making a black coffee for Johnson and a mocha for Tango.

Eric takes the moment to slip into the back. There are people to cover the front, baking to be done, and plenty to think about. He needs some time to himself.

 

#

 

 _Tell Nursey to stop fussing_.

Eric stares at his phone, at the text from an unknown number. _I’m sorry?_ he texts back. _Who is this?_

It takes a moment before the next text comes in. _This is Dex. I got your number from Lardo. I know Nursey’s been texting you but he changed his lock code on me. He’s fussing over my birthday. Tell him to stop._

Eric isn’t quite sure how to handle this. _I’m just making a cake,_ he types slowly. _And some food for dinner so all y’all don’t have to do pot luck._

 _We could just chip in and order take out,_ Dex counters.

 _It’s a birthday present._ Eric has no idea what Nursey has told Dex so far, and his fingers are shaking just a bit at being put on the spot like this. _It’s nothing complicated, I promise. No foie gras. I don’t even know how to make foie gras._

He glances across at where the cake sits on the counter, carefully covered with fondant. He’s only lying where the cake is concerned; the food truly is uncomplicated.

 _I’ve actually had foie gras, at this thing Nursey dragged me to_ , Dex admits. _It’s not bad, but not worth all the fuss, either. What does he have you doing?_

Eric inhales, tries to figure out exactly what he can say that won’t spoil all the surprise. _Well, I’ve been calling it a backyard barbecue. I’ll have sliders with all the toppings, and pizza and wings. Some lighter options, if anyone wants them. I gave Jack and Shitty a place where they could get local microbrew beer. And of course, I’m packing a box of cookies._

The response is quick. _Pack two boxes. I want one for myself. I’ll pay._

Eric smiles slightly, thinking of the favor boxes he’s putting together, and the larger box to match them for Dex and Nursey to take away. His small wedding gift to them. _Don’t worry about it. I’ll bring you some cookies. It can be my birthday gift since I don’t know what else you like_.

… _Do you think people are bringing gifts? Tell people not to bring gifts._

Eric waves a hand helplessly. How is he supposed to do that? “Shitty?” he calls out, not sure if his voice will be audible from the back. A moment later, though, Shitty pokes his head through the door.

“Yeah?”

Eric holds out the phone, pushes it toward Shitty, who takes it and quickly reads through the conversation, nodding to himself.

“Got anything that needs fixing?” Shitty asks, handing Eric back the phone. “Dex doesn’t like to be on the spot, and he doesn’t like being given handouts. But he likes doing things for people.”

“Oh.” Eric stares down at the phone, carefully types, _Well, I’ll do my best. Can’t make any promises._

Shitty leans in, peers at the phone. “Remember, he’s good with a toolbox.”

_Thanks. I don’t need things._

Eric wrestles with how to get this conversation turned around without it being obvious. _No, I understand that._ He hesitates, turns slowly and looks around his kitchen. There’s his industrial mixer, and his smaller mixer that came up with him from Georgia, tucked away in the corner. He has the proofers, and the racks, and the two large standing ovens.

And in the back, in a corner, is a small oven that used to belong to his grandmother. It’s a good oven, for all that it occasionally has fits and starts, and he often uses it when he’s developing new recipes.

_I don’t suppose you know anything about ovens?_

“Fixed the one at the Haus, back when he was a frog,” Shitty murmurs.

Eric quickly adds to his text. _Shitty said something about you helping fix one back at Samwell._

_Do you have one that needs fixing?_

Shitty nods emphatically, points at the screen.

“He’s not going to hear you if you talk,” Eric reminds him.

_It belonged to my grandmother. Not MooMaw, the other one, and she died when I was little. She didn’t bake the same as MooMaw, but this was always my oven and I brought it up from Georgia when I moved to Providence. It’s a good oven, and it’s got a lot of memories, but oh lord, sometimes it does have a mind of its own._

When he presses send, he can feel the waves of approval from Shitty.

“Dex is gonna fall in love,” Shitty says, clapping a hand on his shoulder.

Bitty doubts that.

Dex never does reply, but an hour later, Bitty’s phone pings with a text from Nursey.

_Dex says we have to get to Providence early on Saturday. Something about fixing an oven?_

The trick is going to be how to hide the cake before Dex gets here, but at least it sounds like Dex is distracted now. As long as Dex is happy, Nursey will be happy, and if they’re both happy, then all will be well in Bitty’s world.

 

#

 

It seems strange to sit in the stands to watch his kids play hockey.

They’ve been split with three kids and three Falconers per team. Dom, Eli, and Chops are with Jack, Tater, and Chowder. Even though Eric wants to watch the rest of his kids, his gaze keeps being drawn back to that one team, where Emil leans in, talking to them before they take the ice.

“They had a good day today.”

Eric glances up to meet Georgia’s smile with one of his own. “I’m sure they did; they’re all good kids. Eli will play pro someday, I’m sure of it.”

“I have no doubt that she’ll break all kinds of barriers and records,” Georgia says. “She’s also confident and personable. I have a lot of video of her and Dom working with my players, and a good amount of Chops and Chowder together as well. Has anyone given you the paperwork for the fund we set up?”

Eric’s mouth opens and closes before he shakes his head. “I’d completely forgotten that Jennifer mentioned that when she stopped by,” he admits.

“Speaking of Jennifer, she’s around and grabbing B-roll, so she’ll want to talk to you before the day’s over,” Georgia says. She waves, and Eric spots Jennifer waving back. Jennifer is with someone and they have a camera focused on the ice, following the kids as they play. “We’re planning on airing a spot Saturday, as well as the mini-spot on the news tonight. Local channels are eating this up, and Wake Up Providence mentioned that they might want to have you as a guest again, maybe with one of the Falcs. I was thinking of sending Jack with you; he seems to talk more when you’re around, and you seem a safer bet than having him appear anywhere with his old teammates.”

Eric swallows, his mouth dry as a bone. “Goodness. That’s—that’s a lot to take in.” He holds his breath as he spots Tater racing down the ice, Mac’s shorter legs working hard to keep up with the long-legged Falconer. Mac twists, knocks into Tater than he takes advantage of the momentary space to flick the puck at Marty and cheer when it goes in.

“They’re good kids,” Georgia says, staring out at the ice. “Fearless.”

Eric’s gaze drops. “Well, yes, I do my best to encourage them.”

“I know,” Georgia says gently. “You’ve got a good perspective, knowing what’s possible and what’s out there if they take chances.”

Eric’s gaze shifts, narrowing as he looks at her. “Excuse me?”

“I’ve known Jack a long time,” Georgia says quietly. “He’s a good guy, better off now than he used to be. He had a rough time of it, his first few years in Providence. We had a lot of long conversations, talking about the Samwell team, about little details that he sometimes had trouble assimilating. Jack had to learn about the idea that hockey’s a game. A job. Not a life.”

“This is too personal,” Eric says, wondering why it is that everyone seems to want to let him into Jack’s life. “Maybe he ought to be the one to tell me about his troubles.”

Georgia shakes her head. “I’m not going into any more detail; Jack’s troubles are a matter of public record. You weren’t in Providence yet, then, so you wouldn’t know. But he made the news more than once. Sportscasters were concerned he was returning to his previous addictions. It wasn’t an easy time, and everyone knew what was going on, no matter how hard we tried to put a positive spin on his life. It’s not actually my point, though. Jack talked about Samwell a lot during that time.”

Eric chews on his lip. “Oh?”

“I didn’t put it together until later, when I found out that your vlog was a local thing.” Georgia glances sideways at him. “I found your vlog because of pumpkin pie,” she admits. “You posted that one about the pie with the caramelized sugar on top, and how your MooMaw thought it wasn’t traditional enough. I tried it. It’s become our favorite pumpkin pie; we have it every Thanksgiving.”

“I posted that while I was still in school, back home in Georgia,” Eric says. “I wasn’t in Providence then. I started the vlog when I was still in high school. It was… it was a good way to connect with people.” He doesn’t say _outside of the South_ , or _likeminded_ people. But the words are there in what he doesn’t say and the way the silence lingers for a moment.

“I’ve kept up with your vlog since. I knew you’d moved, but you didn’t say exactly where, and while I knew you’d come to the northeast, I never thought to look for you,” Georgia admits. “But I was interested in what you said not just because of the baking, but because of the ice.”

Eric’s fingers twist together, holding on tight. “Oh?”

“You talked about hockey, and I could see how much you loved it. And how much you struggled with it,” Georgia admits. “And I didn’t put it all together until much later. Because you never said what scholarship you gave up, just that it was in the northeast. But when Jack said—”

“Jack knows—” Eric can’t quite finish the statement, words choking him.

“That you’re the figure skater who didn’t show up to Samwell his junior year?” Georgia finishes his sentence for him, shaking her head. “I didn’t tell him. And I only recently figured it out, when I started putting everything together with how you coach here, and what happened Monday.” She pauses as Eli takes a check on the ice, goes down and bounces back up and skates quickly after Dom. “I’m only bringing it up because I know it means that you know exactly how much Samwell is willing to take a chance on a less-than-typical player.”

“Emil.” It’s easier to breathe now, taking the conversation away from himself to focus on one of his kids instead.

“Look.” Georgia directs his attention to where two men in Samwell jackets sit on a bench, heads bent together as they talk quietly. Emil skates by, stick light in his hands, taking the pass Eli sends him, then flicking it at the net with a sharp shot, barely blocked by Snowy. “Jack asked them to come down and take a look at him on the ice. If they’re willing to offer him a spot, you should encourage him.”

It’s really happening. Emil’s going to have a chance to do something more. “I know,” Eric says, voice barely more than a whisper. “I know. He’s been talking to Lardo. To Jack. He wants it, but he’s afraid to leave his mom and Eli on their own. Afraid he won’t be good enough.”

“He’s good.” Georgia’s tone is firm. “I’m not looking to run out and draft him for the Falcs, but I’d love to see what four years in the ECAC does for him. He’s got potential, Eric. Don’t let him lose sight of the art and history that he loves, but help him understand that hockey can get him those and more.”

“Oh, I certainly plan on making sure he knows,” Eric tells her. “It seems like he’d do well at Samwell. I hadn’t realized….” His voice trails off, because the Samwell men’s hockey team is so different from what he’d expected. Less hockey, more human. More accepting. “I knew it was a good school,” he admits. “I knew they were—different. I hadn’t realized how different.”

“Do you regret it?”

Eric’s gaze shifts to her, and he shakes his head. “Perhaps. A little. I’m in a good place now, though. I have the shop, and I’m happy, and I have my kids on the ice.” He hesitates as he spots Jennifer and the cameraman making their way over. He needs to say one more thing before they get there, but he’s not certain how to make it sound right. “You won’t tell Jack, will you? Or any of the others?”

Georgia’s head tilts, focus intent on the ice for a long moment as Jack passes to Eli, and Eli weaves between Tater and Marty to take it to the goal. “I’m not the only one who’s seen your vlog,” she says quietly, “but you don’t have to worry, I’m not telling anyone.”

Eric is able to relax, smiling when Jennifer approaches, the camera trained on his face. “Well, hey there,” he greets her. “Have you been watching my kids play hockey?”

“I’ve been watching your kids play great hockey,” Jennifer says cheerily. “If you’ve got a few minutes, I’d love it if you could tell me a little bit about each of them, and then a few tidbits about yourself.”

“I’d be happy to.” After all, Eric could talk about his kids all day. He launches into a story about Eli’s first time on the ice with him, and follows it up with a quick tidbit about Chops and his love of double-chocolate muffins. He can tell that he’s on the right track by the way Jennifer smiles and just motions for him to keep talking.

This is for his kids—for funding so they can play more, play harder. Eric settles in and does his best to be as charming as he can.

 

#

 

Everyone’s milling about when the game is done. Eli barrels into Eric as soon as she gets her skates off, throwing her arms around him and hugging him hard, sweat flying from her braids. “Did you see?” she asks, starting into a play-by-play rundown of the game.

Eric lets her talk as long as she likes, waiting to interrupt until she slows down. “I got here a bit before the game started,” he tells her. “Saw every little bit, aside from maybe a moment or two when Jennifer was talking to me. Of course, I told her nothing but good about you.”

“There’s nothing bad to tell!” Eli giggles, then looks past him. “Oh, I’ve gotta go tell Tater something. He’s coming to my birthday next month, he promised.”

“They seem to have had fun.” Jack’s voice comes from over Eric’s shoulder, close enough to feel the warmth of his breath. When Eric turns, Jack’s cheeks are flushed red from the chill of the rink and exertion.

“Seems to me the Falconers had fun, too,” Eric chirps. “Is it good to play for fun once in a while?”

“Eh, sometimes we forget what it’s all about, I think.” Jack raises a hand, waves off Marty before he can approach. “You should come by again soon; we can work on checking.”

Eric looks to the ice, where Dom is still standing there watching Chops work on his split. “I don’t really need it,” he says quietly. “It doesn’t come up when I’m working with the kids. They’re small, and well, they don’t scare me,” he admits. “Eli and Mac can check me all they want, even Dom, and he’s the biggest of them. I don’t need to worry about it when I’m coaching.”

Jack sits down on the bench, starts unlacing his skates. When Eric stands there, Jack pats the bench next to him, and Eric carefully sits.

“Georgia told you that the coaches from Samwell came to see Emil play?” Jack glances at Eric, looking back to his skates when Eric nods. “Well then, you can say all you want to him, but you’ll lead best by example.”

Eric finds where Emil is with his mom talking to one of the coaches, the Samwell colors obvious amongst all the Falconers gear. “Because he’s afraid to play at Samwell.”

Jack works one of his skates off, then the other. He reaches under the bench and pulls out a pair of slippers that were tucked there earlier and slides them on his feet. “Emil paints,” he says. “He showed me pictures of some of it, and it’s good. Maybe not enough to sell, but he’s decent, and he likes it. And he gets history. Not just memorizing the dates, but we talked about movements. Reasons behind why things happened, why things could happen again. He’s got a quick mind, the kind of person who could do something with a history degree. Teach, if he wanted, or possibly go into something else. Hockey could be how he does it.”

“I know.” Eric clenches his hands together, remembering a conversation he’d overheard between his mother and his guidance counselor in his last year of high school. About potential, and a chance to do things differently if he went to away to school.

“He’s afraid that if things get rough in the ECAC—says he’s watched a few games—that he’ll be down. Or hurt,” Jack says quietly. “Says he’s not sure he’s got what it takes to skate through someone at that level.”

“You think if I practice checking with you, he’ll be willing to give it a whirl,” Eric says slowly.

Jack nods once, then straightens up, skates carried loosely. “We should keep talking, but I’m hungry. Let’s get dinner.”

“What?” That’s not what Eric was expecting.

“Do you have to go back to the shop?”

Eric shakes his head slowly. “No, Tango and Shitty said they’d close. Johnson’s with them, but I’m never certain if he’s having some kind of an existential crisis, so it’s best to have two others on with him, I’m thinking. They’ll let me know if they need me.”

“Then come out to dinner—I’m paying, don’t worry about anything—and we’ll keep talking.” Jack motions for Eric to walk ahead of him, and Eric starts walking because it’s easier than answering. Than thinking.

He needs time to process this, because he knows it’s not what it sounds like. It can’t be what it sounds like. But at the same time, Eric certainly wouldn’t mind. His breath hitches in his throat, and he finally nods because it’s easier than talking.

“Good.” Jack stops off in the locker room, stowing his skates and gear and changing quickly into jeans and a flannel shirt while Eric looks everywhere but at the famous Zimmermann ass.

Eric bites his lip, crosses his arms across his chest, and holds on tight. He’s not sure how much of this he can take.

Jack touches his back, and Eric jumps. “Oh.”

“I’m ready if you are.” Jack smiles slightly, motioning at the door.

The air feels thick outside, the summer air still filled with humidity. There’s rain coming, Eric’s sure of it, but it’s still cooler than a Georgia night. They walk along in silence for a bit, Eric letting Jack lead the way.

“People keep talking to me about you,” Eric says slowly, and Jack gives him a startled look.

“They do, eh?”

“They do. Personal things, sometimes, although Georgia says it’s all a matter of public record.” Eric’s voice hitches, because he’s slightly uncomfortable discussing it. And yet, he feels like Jack should know that he’s been let in, that he’s aware that there’s something that happened.

“Not all the details, though,” Jack says, and his voice is calm and even, like he’s not at all surprised.

“Uh, no.” Eric hurries a bit to keep up with Jack’s longer stride. “Just that you were different at Samwell, and you had a tough time when you started here in Providence.”

Jack glances over at him. “I’m sure they said more than that,” he says. “Which is fine. You’ve been with Shitty, and he talks a lot. He’s my best friend.”

“He’s a bit of an odd one,” Eric muses, and that startles a laugh from Jack.

“You could say that,” he agrees. He points down the street. “One block that way, then we’ll turn left. It’s out of the way a bit, but it’s good Italian food. Trust me.” Jack has his hands in his pockets, his shoulders hunched. “I always knew I’d play hockey,” Jack says slowly.

“Shitty said,” Eric tells him. “Your dad’s Bad Bob Zimmermann.”

“You have no idea who that is.” Jack smiles slightly at Eric’s embarrassed look. “It’s not his fault. It’s my own, thinking I had to live up to that. I pushed too hard when I was younger—just about Emil’s age. And I broke, instead of going into the draft. Watched my then best friend go number one in the draft, and I went… well, I didn’t go anywhere good for a bit. Took some time off before Samwell, and I rebuilt there. Made friends who had interests other than hockey. But I still did hockey first, everything else after. Then I left Samwell.”

“And came to Providence,” Eric prompts, not quite understanding because it sounds like the perfect ending to the story.

“And came to Providence, where I had hockey, and nothing else.” Jack looks into the distance, slowing his stride to match Eric’s. “My friends were busy elsewhere. I didn’t have classes to distract me. No more history, no photography. Just hockey. Everything I did was hockey, and it was… it was too much.”

“What happened?”

“I hit rock bottom,” Jack admits. “I depended on my anxiety medication. I did nothing else but play, practice, and go home. Shitty came to visit, and he brought Lards and Holster and Ransom and the Frogs—by then there were a whole new set of Frogs, too, Tango included. And they sat me down and methodically reminded me that there’s a whole world out there other than hockey.”

“Like being a doctor,” Eric says, thinking he knows where this is going.

“Like being a doctor,” Jack agrees. “Or a photographer. Or a lawyer. Like being an accountant, or even having a relationship. Having people in your life that weren’t just there for the hockey, they were there for you. And we went back over everything that had ever happened at Samwell—every good thing and every bad thing. And at the end of it, you know what struck me the most?”

Eric shakes his head, rounding the corner with Jack. Up ahead he can see a sign hanging off a small building, noise spilling out and audible even from where they are. “What?”

“I wondered what happened to the figure skater,” Jack says quietly. “I wondered why he didn’t come to Samwell to play with us, and whether he’d gotten lost in his own head because hockey’s not the same as figure skating. Or if something else had happened, or if he’d gone elsewhere. I wondered if he’d tried to find something else he loved just as much as that, and if hockey had been one of those things, and it hadn’t been enough.”

“You thought about someone you’d never even met.” Eric’s proud of the fact that his voice never once shakes.

Jack nods. “I did.”

“And did that help?”

Jack huffs a soft laugh. “Believe it or not, it did. I figured he’d found something. That he’d gone on with his life, found a place to fit in, even if it wasn’t Samwell. And I hope he was happy with it, because I knew that without Samwell, I wouldn’t be here. I wouldn’t have made it to Providence, I might not even be alive. The one thing I’d learned at Samwell was that I couldn’t be an island. I needed people. So I had to make some changes here in Providence, and I did.”

“You took a chance on the people here?” Eric asks.

“Keep on doing it every day,” Jack says. “Anxiety.” He taps his chest. “It’s always there, in my heart and the back of my head, making me wonder what I’m doing wrong, whether I can do anything right. Be enough. I know I’m good, but it’s not enough.”

“Is that why you identified with the figure skater?” Eric asks quietly. “Because his anxiety kept him from coming to Samwell and playing on your team?”

“Maybe,” Jack says. “Maybe it’s just that he had a dream once, too, and he took a side trip. We almost intersected. I wonder what would’ve happened.”

They reach the restaurant and Jack pulls the door open, ushers Eric inside. When the hostess greets Jack by name, Eric flushes brightly, embarrassed to be in the spotlight with a local celebrity. But as soon as Jack mentions Eric’s shop, the hostess gushes, and it puts him at ease.

It’s easy to forget about the conversation after that, and Jack lets it go. Eric hasn’t said whether he’ll practice checking again, but Jack doesn’t push. And for that, Eric’s thankful.

 

#

 

It’s not until Eric’s home again, tucked into his apartment above the shop, that he realizes. He pulls out his phone, opens up the text stream with Jack, and considers typing before he sets it aside.

No. He should let it go.

He can’t let it go.

He picks up the phone and types, pressing send before he can reconsider again.

_You knew who I was. Before you even came in here, you knew who I was._

There’s no answer at first, and it occurs to Eric that Jack’s a professional athlete who is probably used to getting up at horrible hours and might actually be asleep. Of course, Eric should be asleep given that he has to be up just as early in the shop on Friday, and yet, here he is, staring at his phone.

He finally sets it down again, reaches for the remote and turns on the TV. He needs a distraction.

The phone chimes with an incoming text.

He picks it up, half expecting it to be Lardo asking about color coordination, or Nursey with a concern about the cake.

It’s Jack.

_Yes. I knew who you were. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you._

Eric licks his lips, tries to figure out if this changes anything. _It’s okay. It was just a surprise to hear you talking about me today. I’m not an inspiration for anyone._

 _You’re wrong_.

The response comes so quickly that he thinks Jack must’ve known what he was going to say.

_You’re an inspiration for the kids you coach. And you’ll continue to be an inspiration for them. You’re someone who walked away from one dream and right into another. You’re doing what you want. And you’re happy._

Eric touches the screen, slides his fingers over the words that Jack has sent.

The phone chimes again.

_You are happy, yes?_

_I’m happy,_ Eric sends back. _Of course I’m happy. I’ve got my shop, and my kids, and my vlog. I get to bake every day, and I get to stay on the ice, too. I’m just startled is all._

He’s not sure how to explain it to someone else. He’s spent so long partitioning himself out and he never expected one person to take the time to put it all together. Eric never expected one person to see all the pieces in one place and think _Eric Bittle_ at the end of it all, yet here were two people in one day. Georgia. And Jack Zimmermann.

_Is it bad?_

Eric licks his lips, tries to think of all the things he’s said in the vlog over the years. All the little things he’s confessed to, talked to his unseen audience about. He tries to reconcile that with his coaching, with his kids. With his work in the shop.

_No, it’s not bad. Oh lord, it’s just a bit of a shock. Here you are, Jack Zimmermann, and here I am, someone who bakes pastries and vlogs about, well, everything under the sun._

And here he is, the boy who was too afraid to skate for Samwell.

Eric bites his lip, thinks about just turning the phone off and going to bed.

That wouldn’t be polite to just disappear, and his mama raised him right, after all.

_I think I need to sleep. And think a bit on things, perhaps._

His phone chimes right away. _Are you all right?_

 _Oh yes, I’m fine, of course I am,_ he replies quickly. _Just a bit unsettled, but it’s all going to be fine, Jack. I promise. You know I’ll be by early on Saturday, right?_

Dots appear and disappear, as if Jack reconsiders his words several time. _What time?_

Eric exhales, back on an even keel. _An hour before everyone else. I’ll be bringing most things ready to go, just need to do the final preparation in your kitchen. You do have a kitchen?_

_I do. It’s a good one._

Eric smiles to himself. _Prepare to let us take it over. Emil and Beth will be with me. And of course, we’ll be bringing Dex’s cake. It’s not small—Nursey won’t let us do anything by halves. It’ll need to go somewhere safe. Somewhere no one will peek at it before Dex gets his chance to see it. Not even you, Mr. Zimmermann._

There’s a laughing emoji first. _You have to worry about Shitty, not me. But I’ll be here. I’ll see you Saturday, then._

 _See you Saturday_ , Eric types. He locks the phone as soon as he presses send, then mutes the volume and sets it face down on the table. As tempted as he is to tweet, he doesn’t want his thoughts going out where his new friends from Samwell and the Falconers can see them.

He needs time to process this, to come to terms with the idea that there are people who see him. See all his pieces, all at once.

He needs to think about the idea that one of them happens to be Jack Zimmermann.

 

#

 

Saturday morning, Eric hangs the sign on the door of Bittle’s Bitty Bites to remind everyone that they’re closed for a private party. They’ve been telling folks all week, and he’s certain that there might be an unexpected drop-in or two who won’t know, but this is the only way to do it. He needs the kids’ help loading up the cars, not to mention bringing everything into Jack’s house. There are boxes and platters and serving trays of food, all carefully wrapped and ready to go. They split it between two cars, the box with the cake getting the place of honor on the front passenger seat of Eric’s car, carefully held in place by a seat belt.

As Beth climbs into Emil’s mother’s minivan, Eric admonishes, “Drive safe. It’s more important to arrive there in one piece than it is to get there quickly.”

“You’re worried about the food,” Beth points out with a quick grin, and Emil chuckles.

True, perhaps, but Eric’s worried about his kids as well. “I can be worried about both,” he says, and they both laugh aloud, closing the doors so they can’t hear him anymore.

They drive out of the area where Eric’s shop is into the suburbs, where brownstones give way to separate houses with yards of their own. Jack’s house is small and cozy, compared to some of the others on the street, set back from the road with a facade made of stone.

Eric pulls into the driveway behind Emil’s van, hopping out as the garage door slides open in front of them. Jack stands there, dressed casually in a t-shirt and jeans. He motions, calls out, “Let’s get everything inside, out of the heat.”

It’s still early enough that the summer heat isn’t at full strength, but Eric can feel the humidity setting in. He goes to pick up the cake box, but Emil is already there, lifting it more easily than Eric could. Jack approaches, expression curious, and as he reaches for the box, Beth slaps his hand away.

“No peeking,” she says. “Emil take that in and put it in the fridge. I hope there’s room.”

“Kitchen’s through the door inside the garage,” Jack says, his eyes wide. “I didn’t think the cake would be so big.”

“Nursey requested something that Shitty would consider epic,” Eric says, and it’s only a tiny lie. It came up once during a conversation, and it seems like a good excuse to explain away the size of the box. “Emil, get it settled, and don’t let anyone look. Dex should be the first to see.”

“What about Nursey?” Jack asks.

“Oh, he’s already seen pictures.” Eric reaches into the back of his car, pulls out a stack of pans of prepared foods. He holds them out to Jack. “Here you go, take these in. Might as well help, right?” His heart is hammering fit to burst out of his chest as his fingers brush against Jack’s hands, and he turns away to hide the flush.

It’s nerves, of course. He’s never catered something like this before. Lord, he’s never even thought about catering something like a surprise wedding, and here he is keeping it a secret from the host.

It takes several trips to bring everything in, but Beth and Emil keep Jack busy while Eric stows the cake in the back of Jack’s huge refrigerator. Lardo and Shitty show up while Eric’s starting to move food from carrying containers into serving dishes. When Lardo pulls open the fridge door and reaches for the cake, Eric insinuates himself in the way and nudges the door closed. “That’s not yours to see,” he says.

Shitty tugs the door back open, nods approvingly when he sees the size of the box. “Brah, that’s going to be an epic cake.”

Beth pushes both of them toward the door. “Go. Be social. Keep everyone out of the kitchen so we can get the food out. Make sure the table is set up so we can get it set properly.”

“You’re all eating with us, right?” Lardo asks, lingering in the doorway. Beth smiles shyly, and Emil nods.

“We are,” Emil confirms.

It’s a rush of work after that, ensuring that everything is ready. Eric toasts buns and puts together the sliders quickly, layering them on a tray, while Beth puts salads into bowls. Emil heads out to set the table in Samwell colors. There are bright spots of conversation that drift through the door, and Eric overhears Jack introducing Emil to everyone from Samwell.

By the time everything is done, there’s a faint sheen of sweat on Eric’s brow. But it’s ready to go, as Beth and Emil bring tray after tray out to the table. The desserts sit waiting for later, still covered in wrap to protect them from hungry hockey players who might try to find sugar before dinner.

When Eric carries out the poached salmon, Jack tugs out the chair next to himself. “Set that down and sit,” Jack instructs. “It looks like it’s time to eat.”

Dex’s cheeks are bright red, but his expression is warm as he looked at Nursey. “You fussed,” Dex grumbles.

Nursey knocks into his shoulder. “Chill. It’s your birthday.”

Eric takes stock of the people around the table, introduced to Ransom, March, and Holster, who are sitting roughly across from his seat. Jack is to his left, Lardo and Shitty to his right, with Emil and Beth at the end of the table beyond them. Chowder sits with Dex and Nursey, talking animatedly.

“Where are Johnson and Tango?” After spending the week with them, it seems strange not to see them here.

“I asked the same question and Johnson asked me if I thought this was the only plot, and then took Tango out to see Providence.” Shitty waves his fork in the air. “I’m not sure why that was more important than Dex’s birthday—”

“I don’t exactly know Johnson,” Dex points out.

“You know Tango!”

“We couldn’t have fit them at the table anyway, not and had Eric, Emil, and Beth with us.” Lardo gestures at the filled seats. “We’re crushed together as it is. Jack, you need a better dining room table than this cob job.”

“I’ll keep that in mind next time I go looking for furniture,” Jack says easily. “And maybe my next house needs a dining room to put it in.”

“Also a very good idea,” Holster says. “Who knows what kinds of parties you might be hosting in the future? Won’t Chowder need some kind of wedding shower with Caitlin next summer?”

“And now you’ve depressed Chowder,” Dex says dryly.

“I’m going to visit her before the season starts up,” Chowder insists. “It’s just going to be hard once games begin. After playoffs I can visit her again. It’s only a year. She didn’t leave very long ago.”

“They’ve been together since their freshman year,” March says softly, confiding across the table. “I’m pretty sure they’ll be able to weather a year apart.”

“Hey, Eric. Bittle. Bitty,” Holster seems to be rolling the names around on his tongue, trying them on. “That’s what your kids call you, right? Coach Bitty?”

“Bitty’s fine,” Eric allows. “And you’re Holster?”

“Adam Birkholtz, but everyone calls me Holster,” he nods, reaches across the table to offer his hand. Eric takes it, his own hand small against Holster’s palm as they shake.

“We’ve already met on Twitter, I do believe, but it’s a pleasure to meet you in person,” Eric says.

“I’ve actually been thinking—”

“This means there are spreadsheets coming,” Ransom interrupts, and Holster shoves at him, then points at Eric with his fork.

“He’s not wrong. Nursey said this is your first catering gig, right? And I figure you had to run numbers to decide how much to charge, and I’m willing to bet that you’ve undercharged him,” Holster says. “Which isn’t actually a problem—I know he’s going to tip well, right?”

Nursey raises a hand as if to say yes.

“So that’s covered. But Shitty and Lardo were talking about how you only have two employees, and how you could probably use more. But, I understand you’re a small shop, and you’re probably barely making ends meet. Live over the store?” Holster asks.

Eric nods, his fork loose in his hand as he stares across the table.

Jack leans in close. “Holster can be a little overwhelming, eh?”

“Oh no, no, it’s fine.” Eric sets the fork down, motions at Holster, both wary and curious where this is going. “Go on?”

“I was thinking that you could probably use some help setting up a budget,” Holster says easily. “Figuring out a way to get everything you need, looking at the numbers you’re already operating under, but being able to add more staff. Making sure you pay you, maybe looking at getting you someone local for taxes and setting you up for retirement. Savings. I can come by tomorrow before I go back to Boston if you want, or we can set another time. Whenever you want.”

Okay, yes, Holster can be a tad bit overwhelming. Eric blinks several times, uncertain how to respond to this offer.

“I’m supposed to be at work during the week, but we could do a Skype call if that’d be easier for you?” Holster suggests. “I just thought it might be simplest in person, so we have access to all of your records.”

“Of course,” Eric murmurs, then his eyes widen as he adds, “Records. In person, yes, I see what you mean. But. As lovely an offer as this is, I do have a business degree, Holster. I’m doing fine, and I don’t really have room for a consultant in my budget.”

“I wasn’t expecting you to pay,” Holster returns with an easy smile. “I like spreadsheets.”

“Holster _really_ likes spreadsheets,” Ransom says.

“No joke,” March adds. “I once found him reworking his holiday budget to keep himself calm during the season openers.”

“I managed to budget for an additional fifty dollars per person without actually increasing my costs that year,” Holster points out. “It was a good budget. I’ve been using that plan ever since.”

Eric leans back, his hand touching his chest. “This is—it’s a wonderful offer.”

“No strings attached,” Holster says. “This is what friends do for friends.”

“You’ve been adopted,” Nursey says lazily. “Welcome to being an honorary member of Samwell Men’s Hockey.”

“You’ll say don’t make a big deal.” Dex reaches for the sliders, putting two on his plate before he adds another smoked sausage and a mound of potato salad. “They’ll still fuss over you.”

Holster spreads his hands, eyebrows up, questioning.

“Yes,” Eric decides, and Holster grins. “Tomorrow would be fine.”

“Good, we’ll get started then. Might have to make another time to finish up,” Holster points out as he starts eating again. “We’ll make sure you’ve got everything you need.”

“Don’t forget I’m coming by to look at that oven,” Dex says. “Since Nursey couldn’t get his ass in gear and get us there before the party.”

Eric nods. Goodness. This is what he would’ve had if he’d gone to Samwell. This camaraderie—these people—this would have been his family. He would have known them longer, might have even had help setting up his business.

On the other hand, who knows where he’d be if he’d gone to Samwell. Maybe he wouldn’t have come to Providence. Maybe he wouldn’t be coaching the kids, and maybe he wouldn’t have met Beth and Emil. His gaze shifts to look at where the two of them sit, Emil deep in conversation with Lardo while Beth watches him.

“You’ve got good employees,” March observes, and Eric nods quickly.

“Oh goodness, yes. Beth’s worked for me since she was a sophomore in high school—she’ll be starting her senior year this fall. And Emil just started working for me last summer, but I’ve known him since he was smaller. He was one of the first kids I coached.” Eric glances at the two of them just as Beth looks over, smiles to see them looking at her.

“Isn’t the food good?” Beth asks, and March nods enthusiastically.

“The food is excellent, and I’m looking forward to getting my hands on some of that pie Holster’s been raving about. I hope it’s not only birthday cake for dessert.” March leans forward, nodding at Emil. “So, do you and your boyfriend like working for Eric? Is he a decent boss?”

Beth’s skin flushes a deep rose, and she bumps into Emil as she moves. He looks at her, and she smiles shyly back, her fingers next to his on the table. Emil lifts his hand and in deliberate motion, covers Beth’s; she sighs like the air’s punched out, a beaming smile growing as she turns her hand under his, curling her fingers into him.

Lardo coughs, then launches into a description of working on some piece of art that was taller than Shitty and required more than a gross of sequins and twice that of rhinestones to finish.

Emil squeezes Beth’s hand, never missing a moment of his conversation with Lardo.

“Yes,” Beth whispers, clutching at Emil’s hand as she finally responds to March’s question. “It’s great to work for Eric. And I love working with Emil.”

Jack nudges Eric’s elbow, leans closer to murmurs, “Took his shot, eh?”

Eric feels warmth heating his own cheeks. “Well, yes, I suppose he did.”

The conversation winds down eventually, utensils lowered as the meal is done. There are certainly things left over, but the trays are far cleaner than Eric expected, and he’s glad he overestimated for the crowd.

As Eric rises, Emil lets go of Beth’s hand, pushes to his feet. Eric holds up both of his hands in a clear _stop_ gesture, then points at Emil’s chair. “You sit yourself right back down there. You two have done plenty of work for today, and y’all are going to rest now. Enjoy yourself. Talk about art, or hockey, or what have you. I’ve got this.” He reaches for Jack’s plate, but Jack is already standing, a small stack of empty plates in his hands.

Jack takes Eric’s plate, gestures at the table. “You bring back the trays, I’ll start the dishes,” he says easily. “The rest of you, keep on talking. You’ll get dessert once we’ve got this cleaned up.”

Eric looks around the room, the way the cobbed together “table” has taken over the center of the living room. “If you’d like, the dessert can be served on a side table; do you have any tray tables? Or you could push all this to the side and have some more space.”

“We’ll take care of it once it’s clear, sure,” Shitty offers. “You do what needs to be done, we’ll take care of the rest.”

Nursey glances up at Eric, and for a moment Eric can read the flash of nerves. Nursey gives him a small nod, which Eric takes as thanks. After all, you can’t very well have a wedding around a piece of plywood masquerading as a table. No matter how nice it might look.

Eric picks up two trays, balancing them carefully, and follows Jack into the kitchen.

 

#

 

Eric sets the last of the trays on the kitchen table, and works to pack the remainder of the sausages away. There are maybe a dozen left, along with a pizza’s worth of different types of slices, and a couple dozen sliders. The salmon is gone, as are the wings, and the remainder of the side salads each fit into small containers. Eric layers the last of the roasted vegetables atop the garden salad—the flavors will marry well and work as leftovers—then puts the various containers in the refrigerator.

Jack is up to his elbows in dishwater, bending over periodically to put things into the dishwasher while Eric does his best not to watch. “Time for cake?” Jack asks, and Eric shakes his head.

“I’m on Nursey’s time, and he decides when Dex is getting his cake,” Eric says.

He hears a shout from the other room, and peeks out to see Lardo handing Emil a sketchpad. She sits down on the sofa next to him, and they both have pencils in hand, while a pile of colored pencils, charcoal, and pastels litter a coffee table that’s appeared. Chowder holds out his Sharks cap, lifting it high, and Shitty reaches into it and withdraws a piece of paper. He opens it and shouts out, “The fight against heteronormativity!”

“That’s not a prompt.” Chowder reaches into the cap and brings out another slip of paper. “Snowball fight.”

Lardo and Emil both start drawing as quickly as they can.

“They sound like they’re having fun,” Jack says quietly, and Eric jumps because Jack’s right behind him. Close enough that if Eric were to turn, he’d likely touch his chest.

Goodness.

Jack leans down, murmurs in Eric’s ear. “Emil fits in. They’re all older than him—might not know it from how they act sometimes—but they accept him because he’s hockey. Because he’s probably going to be a part of Samwell.”

Eric does turn, his fingers brushing against Jack’s chest as he raises his hand. “Is that why you all took me in?”

Jack shakes his head. “They don’t know. Or if they’ve put it together, no one’s mentioned it to me. Wouldn’t be surprised if Lardo’s figured it out, though. I think she’s seen some of your vlogs.”

“Do you think he’s going to do it?” Eric twists so he can see Emil again, just as there’s shout and Emil holds up his pad of paper, proudly displaying a cartoon of a snowball fight. Beth sits on the arm of the couch next to him, leans in to kiss his cheek.

“Go to Samwell?” Jack’s mouth is too close to Eric’s ear. “I think he might. He needs some time to get used to it. Chowder’ll take him out there for a tour, get him on the ice with the kids skating there now. Emil’s different. He’s the kind of risk the coaches at Samwell are looking for.”

Eric’s eyes flutter closed, the warmth of Jack’s breath against his ear reminiscent of the heat of him pushing him carefully against the boards at the rink. “Do you think I should have gone?” he asks softly, and Jack withdraws.

“I can’t say what you should have done,” Jack admits quietly. “I think you did what’s right for you, and that’s good. They took a risk on me—so did the Falconers. In the end, you took a risk on yourself, eh? And you did well with it. Maybe you’re where you’re supposed to be.”

“Hush,” Eric whispers, his cheeks heated. He moves to the table, begins rearranging mini pies that don’t need to be rearranged.

“Cake!” Shitty’s voice breaks through everything else, and when Eric looks back into the living room, Dex is standing with his arms crossed, his brow furrowed.

Chowder motions for them to come out as soon as he spots them. “Jack. Bitty. Nursey won’t give Dex his cake.”

Nursey glances back at them, and Eric nods, because of course, yes, everything’s ready. As ready as it’s going to be.

Jack’s fingertips rest at the base of Eric’s spine when they halt, just inside the room. On the couch, Beth slides off the arm to tuck in close to Emil, her hand in his. Shitty leans over the back of the couch, one hand on Lardo’s shoulder.

Nursey exhales, hands flexing at his sides.

“Brah, you look anything but chill,” Shitty says quietly. Lardo pushes at his chest, and Shitty goes silent.

Nursey slowly drops to one knee.

“Dex.” Nursey’s voice breaks; he clears his throat.

“Wait, are they—” Ransom cuts off when Holster knocks into him, and March claps a hand over his mouth and whispers _hush_.

Nursey brings out a box, holds it out on his palm and opens it carefully. Eric can’t see from where he’s standing, but Nursey showed him on their last Skype call about the party—there are two plain gold bands, matching in every way other than size. “Marry me,” Nursey says. “Right now. So you don’t have to worry about there being any additional fuss over it.”

“Holy shit,” Shitty whispers.

Dex’s skin matches his hair, a brilliant, bright red full of heat. His arms are tight across his chest, his shoulders shaking.

“Dex?” Nursey’s voice shakes again, and he starts to rise.

“Chill,” Dex says, and there’s a cut off snort of laughter from somewhere. “You know I’m going to say yes.”

“Thank fuck.” Nursey’s on his feet, his arms around Dex, pulling him in and holding on tight. The room explodes with sound and movement, and Eric hangs back as the Samwell alumni push forward to congratulate Nursey and Dex.

“I knew it!” Shitty says, clapping Nursey on the back.

“We all knew, Shits,” Lardo says. “But it wasn’t ours to go asking them about.”

“I’m just glad they told us before they got married,” Chowder says.

“Wait a minute,” Dex says, looking at the rings in the box. “Did you say that we’re doing this right now?”

Everyone stops. The doorbell rings, and Nursey relaxes, his arm around Dex’s shoulders. “I did, and that should be the town clerk with the paperwork, because I might have pulled a few strings. Chowder, grab a pen and put on a smile; Ms. Emily Van Auken is a fan.”

It’s chaos as they rearrange the living room all over again. Emil helps Holster move the furniture so they can make a space, and Shitty has his phone out, muttering about proper ceremony. Emily Van Auken has Jack taking photos of her with Chowder, while Nursey draws Shitty aside, discussing how the ceremony should go.

Soon enough the official paperwork is signed, and Nursey and Dex are in possession of a marriage license. They stand in front of Shitty with Chowder between them, attempting to be best man for them both.

“This is swawesome,” Chowder says gleefully. “It’s perfect. Shitty, you should get started, because our best friends are getting married.”

“Shut up, Chowder,” Dex tells him.

“Chill.” Nursey glances at Chowder. “But with all due respect, shut up.”

Chowder raises his hand, mimes zipping his lips.

“So, obviously I’m not prepared for this,” Shitty says. “I don’t have some kind of a sermon. Hell, these guys are the first marriage I’ve performed, even though I got ordained a few years ago. I figured I’d get to use it eventually. Didn’t think you guys would be first. I thought it was actually going to be—”

“Shitty,” Lardo says warningly, throwing a balled up napkin at him. “Stay on topic.”

“Look, there isn’t really much I can say, is there?” Shitty spreads his hands, encompassing both men standing before him. “You two are amazing D-men. In sync. Best—”

“We were best,” Holster says.

“They’re second best,” Ransom adds.

“Really great on the ice,” Shitty continues as if he weren’t interrupted. “And great together off the ice. You never said a word, but none of us are surprised. The two of you argue all the time, but you fit like pieces of a watch. Dex gets wound up, and Nursey’s the one who’s there in the springs, making sure the cogs wind down properly.”

Nursey clears his throat.

“So yeah.” Shitty rubs at his eyes. “I’m honored to be here, marrying the two of you. And this is the part where you should offer up some vows. Nursey?”

“We are oil and water,” Nursey says quietly. “Fire and ice, we are opposites in every sense of the word. You are my balance, Dex. You are my stability. When I tilt, you are there to pull me back. When I waver, you give me your hand and help me find my feet. When my mind is in the air, you are my ground. They say that the other side of hate is love, and we crossed that line a long time ago. I am nothing without you, and I will be with you for as long as you’ll have me.”

“Poetic,” Lardo murmurs.

Shitty rubs at his eye again, sniffles slightly. “Dex?”

“I love you, Derek,” Dex says simply. “Whatever happens, whatever we have to deal with, I’m here for it. With you. Just stop making such a fucking big deal about everything.”

“Are you saying you don’t like the surprise wedding?” Nursey asks.

“I like it better than if I’d had to plan it for a year, which is what I thought we were going to have to do,” Dex replies. “Your moms are going to kill us.”

“Your mom probably won’t be far behind. But we’ve got video for them.”

“Do you guys want to finish this up?” Shitty asks, and Nursey motions for him to go on. “Okay then. Pledges are made, let’s get out the rings.” He waits while they slide the rings on each others’ fingers, then yanks them both in for a hug. “That’s it, that’s all there is. By the powers vested in me by an amazingly helpful website, I pronounce the two of you married.”

Eric coughs, his eyes damp even though he barely knows these boys. But he sees the way they look at each other, the careful way Nursey frames Dex’s face before kissing him, and the way Dex’s cheeks heat and the fond smile as he kisses back. Their love is evident.

“Is this why you wouldn’t let anyone see the cake?” Eric jumps when Jack’s voice comes from too close to his ear, pressing back against Jack accidentally.

“Oh, goodness.” Eric presses a hand to his chest. “Goodness, yes, that’s it exactly. Beth, Emil, would you help me carry everything out?”

“Let’s get this room set up for dancing! Jack, tell me you’ve got actual dance music somewhere in this place?” Shitty yells out.

“I have a Bluetooth speaker if you want to hook your own up,” Jack offers.

For a brief moment, Eric considers offering up his own phone and his favorite baking playlist, as if these people are his friends. His family. But he’s just the caterer, and right now, bringing out the wedding cake is his primary responsibility.

“That was sweet,” Beth says quietly as she makes sure the mini pies are stacked perfectly. “Emil, do you have the cake?”

“Give me just one moment to get the boys settled,” Eric says, as Emil opens the box. Eric unpacks the toppers and sets them up just as he’d said, with Dex at the computer, and Nursey standing behind him, his own desk nearby. “There you go, bring it on out.”

Emil lifts the cake, pauses. “They seem like they’re all really good friends,” he says quietly.

Eric knows what he’s asking, pats Emil on the shoulder. “You should go take a look at Samwell. If they’re willing to take a chance on you—with the team, and with a scholarship—you should consider taking a chance on them.”

“But my mom and Eli—”

“They’ll have help,” Eric promises. “They’ll miss you, but they won’t be on their own. Go on then, make some connections out there. And think about taking a shot.”

Music is already playing by the time they make it back into the living room, Dex swaying with Nursey despite the fast beat of the song. They pause as Emil places the cake on the table, and there’s a chorus of noise approving the colors, the design, and the boys on top.

Nursey and Dex do the first cut of the cake, and take the first slice, then Eric carefully slices the rest, laying it out on plates for the guests to take. Out of the corner of his eye he spots Beth chatting with Lardo and March, and Emil deep in conversation with Jack and Shitty.

Tears prick the corners of his eyes because he knows in his heart that Emil will be going to Samwell in the fall. Eric might not have made it there, but he’s made sure that one of his kids has a future. And when the time comes for Eli, and for the rest of them as well, he’ll do his best to make sure they get every chance they can.

He carefully arranges the trays, bringing out the cookies to go alongside the mini pies. He makes small talk and answers questions, then brings out more plates and napkins when they run out.

It takes time before Eric can finally slip away, duck out the front door and close it quietly behind himself. He sinks down onto the step and breathes in the warm summer air, lets his head drop forward onto his knees.

It’s a bit like seeing the future he could’ve had in there. He’s certainly glad Emil will have his opportunity, but at the same time, Eric knows now what he let slip through his fingers, and it aches deep in his chest.

He just needs a few minutes to breathe.

 

#

 

Eric hears the door open and close behind him, can feel the heat of Jack’s body as he settles in on the step next to him.

“Are you okay?”

Eric nods. “I’m fine. It just got a bit loud, and it was surprisingly overwhelming.” The longer he’s sat here, the more reasons he’s added to just how overwhelming the night is. Right now he’s not sure which tops the list: seeing two so obviously-in-love men get married, or having Jack Zimmermann checking up on him.

Oh, who is he fooling? It’s definitely having Jack Zimmermann sitting on the step, looking at Eric as if he’s truly concerned about his welfare.

“Thank you for helping make my friends happy.” Jack shifts slightly, his shoulder brushing against Eric’s.

“Well, thank you for taking care of Emil.” Eric glances over. “He was talking to you.”

“I’ve already emailed Coach for him, and we’re setting up a visit. I might go along with him and Chowder.” Jack looks down at Eric, and he’s so close that Eric’s breath is trapped in his throat. “You could come with us.”

Oh, that would…. Eric looks away. “I couldn’t, really. I’m thinking enough about what life might have been like if I’d taken that chance.” He laughs weakly. “Imagine how I’d feel if I were on the campus? Goodness. I didn’t even have the guts to visit it. I was—I was afraid I might like it.” He hesitates, then says, “It was the perfect place. It would have been a way to leave Georgia behind completely. Samwell was known for being so open. Accepting. I thought I might be able to be myself.”

“It’s okay,” Jack says quietly, and when he leans against Eric it’s slow and deliberate, his shoulder a long line of heat against Eric’s skin. “So you didn’t take that chance, just like I didn’t take a chance with the draft when I was the same age. Funny thing, though, how we still ended up right here, isn’t it?”

“Think we might have been here still if things had happened differently?”

Jack smiles slightly. “That’s the thing about history; it’s set and done. We can’t change it. All we can do is look at how history happened, and make our choices based on that, and take new chances going forward.”

“Learn from our mistakes,” Eric says.

“And our successes.” Jack turns to face him completely, expression serious. “My uncle always said that you miss one hundred percent of the shots you don’t take.”

Eric tilts his head, shorter than Jack even when they’re both sitting down. He licks his lips. “So. You should always take a shot.”

“Yes.” Jack touches Eric’s face, fingers light against his jaw. There’s plenty of time to turn away, as if Eric ever would. Then _oh goodness_ , Jack Zimmermann is kissing him, warm and soft and careful and light, as if Eric might say no.

Eric winds his hands over Jack’s shoulders, whispers, “I want to take this chance.”

“Good.” And Jack’s hands are there framing his face, and the kiss deepens, letting Eric sink into it, fall against Jack and just hold on.

Maybe it doesn’t matter how he got here, what path he took to this moment with Jack’s mouth on his. Eric has his shop, and he has his kids to coach, and now he has a chance with Jack Zimmermann. This isn’t a shot Eric’s willing to miss.

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me [on Tumblr](http://tryslora.tumblr.com) where I talk about OMGCP, Teen Wolf, Harry Potter, Yuri on Ice, and everything else that comes to mind on a random basis (including writing). I also write original fiction which you can find at [Welcome to PHU](http://welcometophu.tumblr.com) (on Tumblr).


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